Tortugain Treasures
by FreedomOftheSeas
Summary: A chest piled high with one-shots and drabbles inspired by various prompts and challenges! Features all pairings and endless possibilities.
1. Prompt: Captain

A/N: This is a series of drabbles and one-shots written for various drabble challenges for_** Livejournal**_ and the new _**Broken Compass**_ forum challenges. Features an array of pairings.

Enjoy!

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**Pairing**: Jack, Will  
**Word Count**: 113  
**Prompt**: Captain

**_A Matter of Perspective_**

**_---  
_**

Jack Sparrow's eyes grew wide, mouth aghast. His breath escaped him, like a fugitive seeking refuge that could no longer be attained in his distraught state of mind. The fingers that had tightly gripped the shattered cutlass with purpose grew numb and weak in the unyielding rain, yet he forced himself to watch William Turner's days suddenly come to an end. A grand battle waged within him, but his ambition and pride didn't stand a chance; for his heart and mind were now fighting on the same side of the battlefield.

Cruel was, indeed, a matter of perspective.

'_The Dutchman must have a captain…_'

And it shall have its rightful captain.


	2. Prompt: Wager

**Pairing**: Will and Bootstrap Bill Turner  
**Word Count**: 233  
**Prompt**: Wager

_**Die is Cast**_

_**---  
**_

"I'll wager ten years."

"I'll match ten years."

"Agreed."

William Turner watched condemned men gamble their years of uncompromising servitude.

He stood along side the living-dead carbuncle of his father. The grim look that plagued his face told unspoken tales, ones that would require infinite amounts of pages to properly recite.

Long tresses of black hair tumbled down to his shoulder from under his black cap; a lone, coral starfish clung to his temple, lined with small shells and hints of seaweed – a blatant indication of life below the crest of the sea. He was visibly losing himself, bit-by-bit from his wager with the devil himself.

'_Why he's a spittin' image of ol' Bootstrap Bill!'  
_

'_My son … he's my son…'_

His father's words replayed countless times in his mind.

William Turner, son of Bootstrap Bill Turner, a pirate and a good man.

"Wondering how it's played?" his father inquired, looking down at the scene before him; his raspy breath propelled small droplets of saliva from his lips.

'_I understand,_' he thought. '_It's a cruel game – one that prides itself on deception and secrecy. It's a game that any man of sound mind and heart wouldn't dream of playing in his lifetime_.'

Yet, there he stood, awaiting his turn to cast the die – forestall judgment, one hundred years before the mast. A wager – a price that any sailor would be willing to accept.


	3. Prompt: Truth

**Pairing**: Jack and Elizabeth  
**Word Count**: 863  
**Prompt**: Truth

_**The Truth of It**_

_**---  
**_

"You vanished from under the eyes of seven agents of the East India Company. You sacked Nassau Port without even firing a shot. Are you the pirate I read about or not?" Elizabeth urged, sporting a look of frustration and vivid emotional drive that emanated from her bright eyes.

He leaned back, pulling down the collar of his wet linen shirt with two long tar-stained fingers, revealing not one, but two russet scars on his right breast. The two infamous gunshot wounds he acquired in Singapore, a day Jack could remember all too well.

'_Jack Sparrow! I welcomed you into my home and this is how you repay me?_'

_Jack stood nervously, hiding Sao Feng's young, scantily clad sister behind his back as she frantically dressed in shame. _

'_Now, now, lets not get all riled up about this Sao …' Jack began, trying to flash one of his dashing smiles, unknowingly backing into a barricade of Sao Feng's men. _

'_You cause me great insult, Sparrow. And now, you will pay.' He pulled out two flintlock pistols, artfully made of antique finished zinc cast metal and polished hardwood. _

_He found himself cornered and unable to escape even with the use of his wit or cunning. And at last the day had come where the infamous Jack Sparrow could not skillfully flee his fate. His destiny had finally arrived. _

He began rolling up his sleeve with an unemotional grimace painted his lips as he hardened his expression. Another scar originating from the crook of his elbow, traveling down to the very edges of his wrist, this one appeared to be long, jagged, and unbelievably painful.

'_Jack Sparrow, is it?' A menacing, monotone voice inquired as he stood firmly, his back turned to his young prisoner. He delicately sipped a small cup of tea made of fine white china, placing it back down on a thin tea plate that rested in his right hand, like a true gentleman. Yet, for all that knew him, Cutler Becket was no gentleman of any sort. _

_The young prisoner stood tall, chest held high at the sound of his name, shoulders square, hair considerably longer than most, with features young and clean. His hands tightly shackled; palms and forehead glistening with a light film of sweat. _

'_Maybe, Mr. Sparrow, I had not made myself clear in regards to our policies on slave cargo?' Beckett began, placing his cup of tea gently down upon his desk, slowly making his way toward Jack._

'_As you may know, Mr. Sparrow, we have strict guidelines regarding privately owned cargo – the cargo that you were in charge of delivering to New England, am I right?'_

"_Yes, sir," he muttered._

_He nodded. 'Cruel though it seems, Mr. Sparrow, the networks we hold with the Colonies are not to be served or disrupted – especially not by those creatures. So let me make this clear to you, we do not, under any circumstance, release our cargo until it has reached its proper destination. Is that understood?'_

_The young man paused; biting his lip. A darkly dressed man grabbed him tightly by the shoulder, visibly gritting his teeth. 'Answer, you ungrateful rodent!'_

'_Y-Yes,' he stammered nervously, feeling his heart race within the confinements of his rib cage, unknowing what punishment was to come. _

'_Mercer, I believe it's time to teach our little Sparrow a lesson in good business,' he stated, walking over to the small brick fireplace that lay adjacent to his desk. _

_Mercer forcefully pulled Jack down in a small wooden chair, grabbing a small, almost invisible piece of rope from his pocket to tie down his arms. _

_Beckett pulled out one of the numerous pokers from the fiery pit and held it up before his face. He slightly tilted his head towards Jack, revealing the dreaded letter "P" to his young prisoner. _

_Jack began to panic, his life, reputation and career would be in shambles as soon as the scorching poker ignited his flesh. He rebelled as best he could but found his efforts to be superfluous with both of his arms tied down and Mercer at his side. _

'_Mercer, see to it that Mr. Sparrow finds a way to calm himself.' _

_Mercer pulled out a small pocket blade and began to work on Jack's left arm, slicing it open, fumbling his fingers like an amateur at the sight of sanguine red, blood. He let it pour from his butchered forearm, until the frantic Jack Sparrow became still and silent.  
_

'_You've forgotten your place, Jack. Now the company will forget about you.' _

_He could only feel the initial sting of the brand, for he had lost too much blood to be able to watch it fester within the layers of his skin. He lost it all in the matter of minutes, but gained a new vigor for life in the years to come. _

"No, love. I was making it all up, that's the truth of it," he replied sarcastically, sitting himself down on a soft patch of white sand. Scanning the open waters, he found that he had, once again, become the governor of that godforsaken spit of land but, now he had acquired a godforsaken governess.


	4. Prompt: Trust

**Pairing**: Pintel and Ragetti  
**Word Count**: 162  
**Prompt**: Trust

_**Credit for Trying**_

_**---  
**_

"What makes you think that you can 'old the chest?" Pintel argued insatiably, prodding a stubby finger into the chest of his bony counterpart, Ragetti. "It was _my_ idea to remove 'temptation' in the first place!" he continued on, in childlike stubbornness.

"It's a matter o' trust, if you ask me," contested Ragetti, backing away slowly, holding the chest tightly to his body, arms folded around its contents.

"A matter of trust, is it? What could possibly make the likes of you so trustworthy in the first place?"

"I've got 'trustworthy' written all over me face. Barbossa sees it! That's why he saw fit to entrusted me wit' this as well!" Ragetti retorted, pointing at his wooden eye.

A grim look overcame Pintel's plump face; he scowled at his counterpart's blatant insubordination.

"Not ta mention that I read the Bible!" Ragetti added hastily, pointing his slim finger toward the sky. "Remember?"

"You know you can't read!"

"Doesn't mean I can't be trusted!"


	5. Prompt: Gold

**Pairing**: Scarlett, Giselle and Jack Sparrow  
**Word Count**: 361  
**Prompt**: Gold

_**A Man of His Word**_

_**---  
**_

"Jack," she whined insatiably. "You promised!"

He smiled wickedly, letting his arms dance freely around the waists and thighs of both of the voluptuous wenches on his lap, trying to equalize his attention between the pair. He turned his attention to his left, studying Scarlett's pronounced jaw line under diffused candlelight; her forehead rested delicately within the crook of his neck, eagerly inhaling the supple aroma of salty sweat, letting her amber hair trickle down his beautifully defined shoulder blade.

He felt a pair of soft lips caress his ear with warmth; another hungry, wet tongue yearned for pleasurable attention. He promptly turned his attention to Giselle's piercing blue eyes and buttery pale skin. Biting her bottom lip roughly, he growled tenderly through his teeth, feeling her quiver from his passionate touch. He gingerly twirled her soft blonde locks between his fingers, curling it down beyond her neckline.

Both women were adorned with tightly tied corsets that pushed their petite breasts up as high as it could manage, creating the seductive hourglass silhouette that all men seemed to adore. Their long, tattered skirts tumbled down to the floor, lips painted ruby red, small eyes outlined in thick kohl as to appear larger and more defined. It was a well devised plan to lure unsuspecting customers into their beds, earning another nights pay for another man's pleasure.

Skillful hands slithered in and out of his torn linen shirt, exploring familiarly uncharted territories of hot roughish skin while their fingers artfully traced the contours of his waistline in the effort to loosen his large belts.

"Jack," Giselle whined once more. "You said you'd take us for a ride on your ship!" she protested, resting her hand on her hip, refusing to finish the task.

"Of course, darling! How could I possibly forget?" he began, shifting his gaze between the two. "I am a man of my word, you know," he whispered delicately in her ear, his tone smoother than the finest Venetian velvet.

"Trust me, tarts. You won't be disappointed with my vessel for it is truly a magnificent sight," he smiled, emanating a distinct golden glimmer that mirrored the brightest of stars in the darkness of night.


	6. Prompt: Sickness and Health

**Pairing**: Jack and Elizabeth  
**Word Count**: 304  
**Prompt**: Sickness and Health

_**Till Death Do Us Part**_

_**---  
**_

His mysterious eyes danced across the smooth curvatures of her supple skin, absorbing the aura of her physical decadence while mystified by her sudden display of sensuality. Her lips were pursed; glistening under the influence of dim candlelight as her tongue skillfully grazed the edges of her bottom lip, letting the excruciating moments of idleness pass. Her eyelids sank low, beckoning him to the call of her majesty, the King.

"_I wouldn't touch that, mate,"_ said a small voice, skeptically.

"Why not?" Jack wrinkled his nose at the intrusion.

**"Don't believe the whelp would be too happy if he found out that his blushing new bride's, erm … _virtue_****, had been ransacked by the likes of us,"** another voice began, startling Jack.

"Why would I bloody care about what the whelp has to say?" Jack replied, narrowing his brow.

_They've got a bond."_

**"Aye, a true bond."**

"Obviously, they have a bond that she'll willingly break, making it not so much of a bond after all," Jack stated knowingly, eying the tantalizing scene before him. He let a small smirk rise from the corner of his lips.

**"Or, so it seems,"** the voice's disparaging response dampened Jack's spirit, causing him to anxiously avert his eyes around the cabin.

"I think the whelp can handle it, being immortal _Captain_ of the _Flying Dutchman_ and all," Jack stated with an undertone of resentment and sarcasm. "He can just find himself another girl – or, perhaps, become a eunuch."

"_Their vows cannot be easily severed, Jackie."_

**"To be held in not only sickness but, in health."**

"_Till death do they part."_

"Last time I checked he was, in fact, dead, gentleman," Jack affirmed knowingly, lifting his arms up to illustrate his point.

**"She'll always love him, forever waiting - till death do her part."**

"_Now, can you handle that, mate?"_


	7. Prompt: Whisper

**Pairing**: Davy Jones and Calypso  
**Word Count**: 152  
**Prompt**: Whisper

_**From Whispers to Ash**_

_**---  
**_

Rain drops danced upon his flesh amidst a sea of tormented betrayal. Each drop cried out in anguish of a once forgotten love affair, piercing his skin with meticulous intricacy.

The warm, familiar feeling that once rested deep within his ribcage had fallen into a dark abyss – no longer recognizable. Sweet whispers of devotion and benevolence turned to a distasteful ash in his mouth, causing him to grimace at the very thought of her.

"Calypso!" he cried out to the tumultuous sky. '_You pretended to love me._'

The Dead Man's Chest held a voracious luxury. The luxury of a man who was too eager to evade the backlash of a woman's scorn and the repercussions of a heart denied of natural human impulses. So much so that it caused his blood to boil into a spine curdling bellow from the depths of his soul, for he knew he would never be forgiven.


	8. Prompt: Reign

**Pairing**: James Norrington with mention of Jack Sparrow  
**Word Count**: 249  
**Prompt**: Reign

_**An Admiral Descent**_

_**---  
**_

At the age of thirty-three, James Norrington, a man of genius and refinement undertook his ascent. Well dressed and exquisitely honored in quest, so much so that those below him in the world would follow him longingly with their eyes, as he traveled through peaks of military ranks, entered clouds of triumph, disappearing and reappearing. People watched him and marked him as a man worthy of such great honor.

At the age of thirty-three, James Norrington, a man of genius and refinement underwent his descent. He had now reached the summit of all military ranks, embarking on his final adventure off the shores of Tripoli, in the efforts to rid the world of all that was piracy. Driven by passion and hope - the hope that one day, he will seize the Sparrow that had escaped the palms of his hands. That hope caused him to chase the Sparrow to a location just off the capitol city of Libya, and that hope blinded him at the opportune moment, losing his prey amidst an angry sea.

His uniform, now rags.

Admiration, now disgrace.

Stoic, now sluggish.

The noble man that once stood as Admiral now faced the bitter end of his reign. Cool steel lodged deep within his abdomen, inhaling deep, longing breaths with eager lungs. Life seemed so distant, yet in the last moments of his existence, he regained himself to the man he once was.

Reunited with destiny, James Norrington accepted his descent with great honor and not regret.


	9. Prompt: Racket

**Pairing**: Jack and my OC, Isabella.  
**Word Count**: 700  
**Prompt**: Racket

_**Momentary Bliss**_

_**---  
**_

"S'what are ya tryin' to imply?" inquired Ragetti, crossing his arms upon his chest.

"I'm implyin' that yer a slimy, good-for-nothing, ingrate! Can ya hear me loud an' clear? Or, do ya need wooden ears as well?" Pintel shouted at his slender companion, who was now only inches away from his nose as they glared ferociously at one another.

Jack and Isabella weren't exactly sure what ignited the violent uproar but they surely weren't going to get involved.

"So, you're telling me that you _enjoy_ listening to this insatiable racket for hours on end?" Jack inquired, curling his lip at the scene. His rich, brown eyes now fixated on the two squabbling pirates before him.

She didn't answer as quickly as he hoped, rather she internalized a small belch, holding a hand over her mouth as she felt the slimy acid from her stomach eat away at the back of her throat.

She handed him a large mug of rum as a response. "They're not always like this – besides I've noticed that the more you have of this, my friend, the more amusing it eventually becomes," she affirmed, appearing to be a bit too sloshed for her mind's liking and her speech solidified that very notion.

She didn't have to ask him twice, he raised his hand to the rim of the brown mug, delicately removing it from her grasp with a tug from the tips of his fingers. He'd seen many women drink themselves to oblivion, but she surely didn't seem like the type.

"And yourself?" he inquired, leaning over to her. He was close enough for her to feel his warm breath graze the edges of her skin.

"I think I've had enough," she slurred rather bluntly, trying to extend one of her legs off the barrel she rested on. "I'm starting to see in pairs of four and they all seem to be having a congregation of their own," she stated, attempting to adjust her posture.

Jack cringed, shrugging his shoulders as he stuck out his tongue out between his teeth, letting out a small sound of disgust at the thought of another pair of the two misfits.

As the _Hellride_ rocked away in the darkness of night, Jack found himself amidst two bumbling pirates and one very inebriated warrior. She steadied herself on a barrel as she stood, swaying from a lethal combination of too much rum and the inability to acquire a proper set of sea legs.

He stood by her side, slithering a caring arm around her waist, placing her arm square upon his shoulders. "Hold on there, darling," he gently whispered in her ear, assisting her up the wobbly flight of stairs, leading to the _Hellride's _mahogany deck.

"A bit of air will do you some good," he confirmed, setting her down within a large coil of rope.

He removed his frock coat, draping it over her shivering body. "Suit your fancy?" he inquired, kneeling down to her side.

"You suit my fancy," she spat, rather incoherently amidst a sea of giggles. She held her hand up to her mouth, realizing what she had just uttered.

He raised his brow at her, finding a small smirk emerging upon his lips. "Is that so?"

She covered her face with his coat, attempting to hide beneath it in the hopes that it would mask her from his presence. The rancid odor of old sweat and sea salt carefully weaved itself in and out of its sullied woolen threads. She invited the distinct smell into her lungs with deep breaths of longing; the stench didn't faze her. Rather, it calmed her enough to enable her to close her eyes and fall into a profound slumber.

Jack narrowed his brow. "Oi!" he exclaimed, poking her petite frame from above his coat. Lifting one of the edges of his sleeve, he peered down at the slumbering woman beneath it, only to discover that her eyes were gently closed, accompanying comfortably long and shallow breaths.

He nodded his head and sighed. "Bloody woman … I don't smell that bad!" he finally exclaimed, cursing beneath his breath as he shot an arm up into the air to smell himself.

He grimaced, smelling beneath his other arm as well. "Hmph," he uttered, returning to his cabin in defeat.


	10. Prompt: Mistletoe

**Pairing**: Jack/Isabella, my OC  
**Word Count**: 196  
**Prompt**: Mistletoe - for the Broken Compass challenge.

**_An Immeasurable Essence_**

**_---_**

She detected a slight rustle in the sheets beside her, followed by the feathering of light kisses of a tender heart along her neck from lips of the truest wisdom. In the morning, he was truly reminded of her beauty and how she possessed a unique elegance in the intimacy between them. How she possessed thousands of secrets, flocking together as one, holding a mystery about her which excited him and yet, escaped him at times. As he drew near, he felt his intimacy grow as his fingers entwined with hers, watching as her head tilted back to face him.

She smiled; her sleepy eyes addressing him with deep longing as she brought a hand to his face, letting a lone finger explore the surface of his lips. "Happy Christmas, Jack."

'_Your slightest look could easily enclose me for eternity; your slightest touch could ease any pain I could possibly possess_.'

"Happy Christmas, Bella," he whispered, enclosing his lips upon hers, sharing the deepest yet, simplest moment without the need of holiday refinery and mistletoe. They celebrated with devote spirituality and desire toward the immeasurable essence of love, expressed by every means available in their hearts.


	11. Prompt: Music

**Pairing**: Gibbs, Jack, Elizabeth**  
Word Count**: 212**  
Prompt**: Music at Livejournal

_**A Descant in the Stars**_

---

His hums vibrated deep within his throat, painting exquisite pictures of music upon utter silence just as an artist would on thinly stretched canvas. Expressing his inner thoughts and feelings without spoken language, humming something remembered much like finely crafted paintings and statues.

Resting his arms on the rail, he looked up longingly at the sky; each star sparkled like a flowing descant high above him, singing beautifully written memoirs like poetry.

"Jack, you know, I've always wondered why Gibbs is always singing. Do you know?" Elizabeth inquired, resting her head in her hands as she watched Gibbs from afar.

"A wise man once said, 'he who sings scares away his woes,'" he explained, leaning forward upon the quarterdeck rail. "I have my own sorrows, loves, and delights as you have yours and in turn, he has his own."

"So, he's humming away his sorrows?"

"Well, what would you do after eight long years under the command of the Royal Navy, only to be dishonorably discharged, lead back to piracy for your fortunes, being nearly eaten alive by cannibals, now sailing at full canvas in Davy Jones' locker after nearly fifty years of humming away pirate lore and superstition? Darling, I'd leave him be, because he's surely got something to hum about."


	12. Prompt: Plunder

**Pairing**: Pintel, Ragetti, Elizabeth  
**Word Count**: 206  
**Prompt**: Plunder for the **Broken Compass** challenge

_**A Good Faith Payment**_

---

"Suppose anyone would notice if an item or two so happened to disappear from this 'ere chest?"

"I'd rather doubt it," Ragetti stated, shaking the chest he held in his hands, listening as its contents jingled merrily inside. "Not quite sure if it's a good idea, stealin' from the King, an' all."

"Could be justifiable if we regarded it as a sort of restitution," Pintel offered.

"Like a good faith payment, so ta speak?"

"Aye, I thin' we've dabbled along the lines of decency and honestly fer long enough," Pintel reasoned, looking down at the intricate latch that held the chest tightly shut. "I haven't seen any profit from it as of yet."

"Couldn't have put it better meself, chum," Ragetti affirmed, grinning as he placed the chest down upon a small night table, opening it to reveal priceless treasures that glimmered dynamically within the dimly lit room, almost begging to be plundered.

---

Elizabeth returned to her former bedroom with haste, searching for the two pirates she had put in charge of hauling out her belongings.

"Pintel! Ragetti! Step to it! We've got no time to -- " she paused amidst her brigade of commands, eying Ragetti's sparkling neck in confusion.

"Is that my necklace?"


	13. Prompt: Truth, again

**A/N**: I went a bit history crazy with this one. So, please humor the listening of my terms. Takes place during CotBP, prior to the Jack's hanging.

**Dedicated to TinaMarina for being my first reader/reviewer, ever. **

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**

**Pairing: **Jack Sparrow, Old Smarmy Guy and his confidant**  
Word Count**: 596**  
Prompt**: Truth

_**Willful Commission**_

---

"Jack Sparrow."

"_Captain_ … Captain Jack Sparrow, if you will," he requested, licking his teeth as he attempted to move his wrists beneath the cold, steel shackles.

"You have been brought here for your willful commission of crime against the crown, numerous and sinister in nature. Jack Sparrow, you have been charged with impersonating an officer of the Royal Navy; impersonating a clergy of the Church of England; arson; kidnapping; perjury; piracy; pilfering; deprivation of a Federal Loyalist…"

"Ah! The Loyalists, scum of the earth they were and like all other scum after a battle, they were categorically mistreated. So, really, I was doing you lot a favor," he persuaded, raising his brow.

"Are you implying that there is any truth to these charges?"

"Nay, I'm implying that because of my perjury, piracy and let us not forget, pilfering - I have in me possession several papers that might be of use to the crown … For a price, of course."

"We do not negotiate with pirates," the man said sternly, dipping his quill within a small, black inkwell to begin signing the pirate's documentation for execution.

"Nor Americans, so I hear," he prompted. "I seemed to have stumbled upon something of theirs that might be of interest."

The man huffed in disbelief, slightly adjusting his wig. "What is it that you have, Mr. Sparrow?"

"If you please, gentlemen. There's no need for hostility," he stated, smiling as he raised his shackled arms.

The older man exhaled, looking up from his work for a moment, adjusting his eye glasses. "Release him, but keep an eye on his movement."

Once released, Jack quickly reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small scroll of parchment as he cleared his throat.

"I have here, a letter. Not an ordinary letter, mind you. This letter was written by a common soldier of the Concord militia in Massachusetts, Mr. John Parker, detailing how he has assembled a military force composed of ordinary citizens in the efforts of commencing a revolution of sorts against the crown. The letter also goes on to inform its receiver of the day of said revolution and the exact formations of the battle squadrons."

"A revolution?"

"Aye, so it says. Quite an unintelligent lot of men, if you ask me," he observed, sauntering toward the table where the two pale, finely dressed men were seated comfortably upon cushioned chairs. "Such information should not be trusted to any ordinary oaf that just happened to be walking down the streets of Concord or Lexington."

The older man placed his quill down upon the finished document. "What is it that you want in return for such information?"

"The opportunity to not be dangling from me neck in the morning," he began, raising a knowing finger. "Assure me of my freedom and in return, you shall have your letter and beat those Patriots to the finish, so to speak."

The two older men leaned into one another, speaking no louder than a whisper.

"Do you think he's telling the truth?"

"The truth of it is not a matter that we need to debate at this very moment. Send a letter out to the King and Lord Beckett. Threats of a revolution against the crown are not things we can easily ignore and it is not a risk I'll be willing to take."

"And what do we do with Sparrow, sir?"

"Assure him of his freedom, once we've intercepted the letter, we will alert the executioner."

"Executioner, sir?"

"These documents are already stamped with my seal and so is his fate."


	14. Prompt: Heart

**Pairing**: Davy Jones/Calypso**  
Words**: 143**  
Prompt**: Heart on _**Livejournal**_

_**Words Unspoken**_

---

Their love took many forms, flowing gently like the morning breeze while their passion grew as fierce as summer typhoons.

Their love encouraged vulnerability, ripping open the strongest of rib cages to expose tender gifts of the kindness and compassion, letting others in with an invitation to embezzle.

Their love took hostages, eating them alive while leaving their souls to cry out into the darkness as if a splinter were lodged deep within their heart, festering deep regret in place of longing.

Her locket lay open in her palm like a suit of armor, feeding her ears the music of their long lost romance – the story of a man who loved the sea and how the sea cherished him in return. The notion that nothing could harm what they possessed gradually faded each time the locket closed shut, leaving words unspoken and songs unsung.

"Many things you were Davy Jones, but never cruel."


	15. Prompt: Naughty and Nice

My dearest lady pirate doctor - Nytd,

Merry Christmas my wonderful beta! I must say that I'm thankful for all that you've done for me in the last few months. You've always been a great friend. I thought you might get a kick out of this ;) So, I hope you enjoy!

With all the Christmas cheer in the world,

Your saucy pirate wench - Marcella :)

* * *

**Pairing**: Jack Sparrow, Elizabeth, Barbossa, Murtogg and Mullroy.  
**Word Count**: 502  
**Prompt**: Naughty and Nice

_**It Was All Her Idea**_

---

"Here are a few personal observations on social dancing at formal balls. I'm not an expert, of course, but formal means a particular way of arranging a dance evening, with ballroom-style dances for couples — in the case at hand, Viennese Waltz, the fast original waltz form. Polkas, marches, mazurkas may so fill out the music program, but the Waltz is what you must learn."

The two men looked on as Elizabeth handed them two elaborate dresses from her armoire.

"Dressy attire is not only suggested but required for this sort of holiday event, so this licenses us to wear proper fashions of clothing. For the men, that means frock coats or uniforms and for the belles of this ball, beautiful gowns that brighten the ballroom and rustle and swirl as they turn. Now turn," she ordered.

"Still don't understand why we have to wear the gowns!" Murtogg retorted gruffly.

"Yeah! I thought we were going to play a trick on-"

"Hush! I'll have no more talking until we're done!" she exclaimed, pulling a small bottle of carmine mixed with grease from her bed table. "Now, gentlemen, what do you know about lipstick?"

---

The Turner family took time and care in decorating for the midwinter holidays with whatever natural materials looked attractive at that bleakest time of year --evergreens, berries, forced blossoms along with the necessary candles and fires were placed with great care around their humble home.

Beef, goose, ham, and turkey were accounted for and were true holiday favorites. Barbossa was kind enough to bring fish, oysters, mincemeat pies, and brandied peaches – one of little William's favorites.

It was indeed like clockwork, after a long evening of dancing and merrymaking, William played with his father in front of the fireplace and Pintel and Ragetti had a celebratory mug of rum to warm their bones. Jack Sparrow could be found sitting comfortably in the corner of the room with two, rather hefty women on his lap, fanning themselves vigorously with dainty, white, lace fans.

"Well, lookie 'ere, gents! It's Father Christmas hisself!" Barbossa exclaimed as he brought in another large bag of oysters.

"Ah, still jealous, I see. Because you, you old codger, do not have naughty and nice sitting so gracefully on your lap," he boasted, smiling at the two lovely ladies on his lap as he slithered his arms around their waists.

Barbossa smiled, trying to contain his laughter. "Is that so? Ladies, yer fans, if yeh please," he called to them, holding out his hands.

The two women looked at one another, closing their fans slowly as Jack's eyes widened at the two familiar faces.

"Oh, bloody hell! Get off!"

Murtogg and Mullroy rose to their feet, lifting their elaborate gowns as they darted across the room with Jack swiftly following from behind, carrying a pistol in hand.

And all that could be heard from afar on Christmas Eve were their screams. "It was all _her_ idea!"

"Happy Christmas, Jack," Elizabeth whispered from her window, returning to the fireplace to play with her son.


	16. Prompt: Chocolate

**A/N**: Couldn't help myself when Nydt suggested this prompt to me the other week. I had to come home and write it or else I wouldn't have gotten to chapter 23 of _Esprit de Corps_!

Enjoy, loves!

* * *

**Pairing**: Jack/Isabella, my OC**  
Word Count**: 986**  
Prompt**: Chocolate

_**Café au lait**_

---

He believed that loving caresses or expressions of some sort were necessary to a life of affection, just as a flower to the life of a plant. If he were to remain wholly restrained in physical touch, their affection would die at the very roots, never to flourish again.

To him, all tongues of the world could greet her, all honors could crown her with infinite wisdom, and all eyes could follow her with desire.

As she lay nude in his arms, smiling as her love went out to him, embracing him while running her fingers along uncharted courses, letting her eyes journey upward at the numerous scars scattered along his form. He was symbolically adorned with the painful lessons of his life.

"And this one?" she inquired, eying the jagged edges of skin on his left arm.

"Ah! That one," he sighed, holding his arm up to her. "Quite a gruesome one, isn't it, Bella?"

"Not as much as you might think, it is apart of you, so I find it quite fascinating to see that you made a mess of things at some point," she retorted, watching a small smirk rise from the corner of his lips.

"Aye, so it seems…" he began, clearing his throat. "It seems as though all of life's lessons tend sneak up upon us, hit us with a sort of radiant climax, and then proceed to fade away into the oblivion. I can attest to it, I suppose. During one particular storm a number of years back, I got me arm caught in the topping lifts of the topgallant yard - sliced right through the muscle and bone, it did. I was trying to prevent the yard from turning since the sail had not been set and the yard had not yet been hoisted."

She curled her lip and grimaced at the thought of his injury. Even though she had seen far worse, she had yet to see him harmed or would ever want to pleasure of seeing it first hand.

"Every sailor knows of the dangers of the sea and are aware that the storms that brew above us are far more terrible than they could ever imagine, but those who truly love her tumultuous nature have never found the notion of danger or death a sufficient enough reason to stay ashore."

"Sailors probably love the taste of danger that comes with the essence of adventure," she concluded.

"Nay, we know that all great storms will eventually pass and that a new day and a new horizon will patiently await us in the distance," he said, pointing a knowing finger.

She smiled, nibbling softly at his cheek. "Those sailors are an optimistic lot, aren't they?"

He chucked under his breath, gazing down toward her stomach where his fingers were continuing onward toward a downward journey, exploring the curves of her form as he reached an unexpected junction.

"Now, darling, what about that?" he asked, circling caresses around a fairly large, brown spot on her abdomen.

She looked down, focusing on the peculiar mark. "Oh, well, I never really knew what that was. I've had it ever since I was a child and it never went away. I had forgotten all about it."

He licked his teeth, propping himself up on his elbows as he shifted his weight to closely inspect the spot. "Looks like chocolate…"

She laughed at his comment, stretching her skin between her fingers. "It does not … I mean, it has a slight resemblance to chocolate paste, but no, chocolate is much darker and far more delectable."

"Well, you know, I've never exactly had _your_ chocolate. Thus, it would seem unfair for me to pass judgment on something I've never tasted, doesn't it?" he asserted, running his fingers along her sides as he descended upon her, his braids and trinkets grazing her stomach as his tongue traveled from her naval to her chocolate spot.

She smiled, giggling as she felt his rough hands devour her wherever they passed, but they too had natural beauty, considerately trained for caressing and the creation of affection.

"Well, how was it?" she asked playfully as he emerged from his investigation.

"Don't think I've had enough for a full review, I'm afraid," he said, gingerly nibbling the spot with his teeth.

"You know, my mother used to call it '_una_ _voglia_' when I was little."

"A wish?" he queried, raising a brow at her statement, resting his chin on her stomach as he kicked his feet up in the air. "Why's that?"

"Well, they say that those particular spots come up from unsatisfied wishes of a mother while she is with child," she explained, moving her hand down to entwine her fingers within Jack's feral locks. "Perhaps, she wished for my father to return home from Rome a lot sooner than he did… or maybe she wished to never have me or my brother in such terrible times…"

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, waving off her comment with a flick of his wrist. "Me own mum could have told you that I was a damn handful as a child, but I was hers, after all. Think of this way, love - when a child is brought into this world, a mother is born. You can always argue that the woman existed, but the thought of being a mother is something absolutely new."

After a moment of silence, he looked up at her, noticing a small frown on her face which caused him to frown as well.

"'Sides, by my reckoning, you're sweeter than all the bloody chocolate in the Caribbean. Why wouldn't she want to have you around?" he said, smiling as he saw her face light up at his remark. She pulled him up to her by the braids of his beard, enclosing her lips upon his, filled with an emotion so deep and tender that no other feeling could possibly compare.


	17. Prompt: Misunderstanding

**A/N**: In response to ChaosandMayhem's prompt at the Broken Compass. Takes place years in the future, possibly during/after my sequel to Esprit de Corps. No weddings just yet, gents!

* * *

**Pairing**: Jack/Isabella, Teague, Padraic, Pintel, Ragetti**  
Word Count**: 682**  
Prompt**: Misunderstanding

_**The Bride's Pie**_

---

What a wonderful day it was for an outdoor wedding; warm, but not terribly so. The early June sun peeked out occasionally behind blankets of soft, fluffy clouds. A pleasant breeze from the north rustled in the surrounding shrouds as sweet strains of a fiddle led the wedding procession along the main deck of the _Black Pearl_.

Festivities ensued and bottles of spirits uncorked. Amongst the joyful crew stood Pintel and Ragetti, standing near a small table that was once filled with ornate party favors made of tiny bottles of finely distilled rum from Padraic's private stash. By the end of the ceremony, only one bottle remained and two pirates were left to share in the spoils.

Ragetti reached for the last miniature bottle, running his fingers along the finely crafted, crystal edges.

"Oi! That's mine! I saw it first!" Pintel protested, grabbing the bottle out of Ragetti's hand, scowling at the scrawny pirate.

"Did not! I saw it first, wit' me own eye from way ova there!"

"As if ya could see _anything_ from all the way ova there."

"My eye sight is jus' as fine as ever!" Ragetti exclaimed, pulling at his eyelid with a tar-stained finger.

"Lads, ye'll 'ave ta share jus' like everyone else, wasn't really expectin' him," Padraic interjected, nodding over at Teague, who was merrily sipping away at his miniature bottle of rum as a small smile emerged from his lips at the duo.

"I'd bet me life that, that one was mine…" Ragetti sighed.

"And I'd bet me life that he probably doesn't give a bilge rat's arse..." Pintel muttered.

---

Their cake was the crown jewel of their ceremony as it was elaborately designed and made from dense alcoholic sponge cake layered and frosted in marzipan icing, then covered with another layer of white icing. It was the type of cake any refined individual would eat with a proper dessert fork…

Jack cleared his throat, raising his brow at the bickering while cutting a rather large piece of cake with his dagger for him and Isabella. "What are those two babbling about now?"

"Apparently, there is only one bottle of Padraic's rum left and there two pirates seeking to attain it," she explained, scooping up a bit of icing with her thumb to taste the overall flavor.

"Pity, for a moment I completely forgot they were here in the first place…"

"Jack!"

"What? Perhaps, it was just a misunderstanding," he said, grimacing as he waved the pair off with the tips of his fingers, returning to more important matters. "Weren't you supposed to have sweet bread on your pretty little head by now?"

"I'm not breaking anything over my head; I don't care how much Padraic begs me," she replied, grabbing a small piece of cake with her fingers, and dropping it into her mouth.

"Ah, Irish traditions, but you know you can't exactly say 'no' to the man, this cake is remarkably delectable," he mustered through mouthfuls.

"Aye, that's the truth of it. I must say, he did outdo himself with the favors as well," she said, placing a hand on her embroidered dupion bodice, feeling an overwhelming sensation of satisfaction from all the sponge cake she had eaten.

Jack turned in his seat to face the two squabbling pirates who were now ringing each other's necks for the last bottle of rum. "Aye, still can't count to save his life."

She narrowed her brow at her new husband, taking a handful of cake from her plate, spreading it tenderly all over his face with the palm of her hand.

"My apologies, _Mr. _Sparrow … must have been a misunderstanding!"

He paused, licking icing from his lips and wiping away cake from his eye lids. "That's Mr. _Captain_ bloody Sparrow to you, tart!"

"And its Mrs. _Captain_ bloody Sparrow to you!" she retorted, picking up her pannier-supported, embroidered skirt before running off leaving a train of pale blue fabric behind.

"Terribly sorry, _Mrs._ _Captain_ bloody Sparrow! Come, come now, darling. Don't run off so soon, I know how much you _love_ cake!" he yelled, smiling as he ran after her with a handful of cake and thick, sugary icing.


	18. Prompt: Booty

**Pairing**: Jack/Isabella, my OC**  
Word Count**: 284  
**Prompt**: Booty

_**Treasure in Friendship**_

---

"_Friends_," he cringed, taking a firmer grasp of the _Pearl's_ wheel as he adjusted course into the sunset.

"Jack, you can't honestly tell me that you _don't_ have any friends," Isabella pried, wiggling between him and the wheel.

"Sometimes it is well enough to go into the world and just converse with people for the simple amusement of it, and at times one is obliged to do so, such as myself. I would prefer to be quiet and alone with my work – a bloody trait that was handed down to me by my father. I'd rather possess very few friends, seeing that all those I've never considered to be '_friends_' couldn't be trusted."

"If one keeps friends that love them faithfully they'll find out that life is truly worth living, and will not continue to waste one's compassion on irrelevant, unworthy and worthless trinkets of gold and silver," she persuaded, awaiting a quick witted response.

"I wouldn't recommend it, because it seems to me that even in the most refined circles of the population with the best of surroundings and highest of circumstances; one must relinquish some of those thoughts in the efforts of avoiding poverty, seeing that you can't live in this day and age without silver and gold, love."

"Whoever chooses poverty and loves it possesses a greater treasure than you might think," she countered.

"Wouldn't love it more than hull filled with swag, I would imagine," he said astutely, firmly staring down the bridge of his nose.

"You wouldn't know unless you let someone in, now would you, Jack?"

'_Bloody women…_' he thought, wrinkling his nose.

---


	19. Prompt: Wait

**Pairing**: Jack/Will**  
Word Count**: 307**  
Prompt**: Wait**  
A/N**: First attempt at some suggestive slash, trying to expand my horizons, so to speak. This is rated M, just in case. So, if you're not comfortable with this sort of thing, skip over it.

Otherwise, enjoy!

_**Celestial Entrapment  
**_

**---**

"Patience, my dear William."

He felt that he had been alive since the universe's birth, waiting anxiously for that moment. Unconsciously, he licked his lips, and his eyes fluttered open as if sensing his anticipation. His mouth opened slightly as he shifted his weight so his face lingered a closer to his. Both their eyes widened, softened somehow, and reflected light that wasn't really present.

Jack's palm was slightly angled, letting his fingertips trace a line along his outer jaw, memorizing the angles of his face, calculating intercept points, and docking procedures. He lowered his head, drawn in by Will's inexorable gravity.

He stopped just inches from his lips, savoring the moment. "Despite whatever deficiencies may have characterized your adolescent education about sex and intimacy, you need to take responsibility for acquiring a more thorough knowledge on these topics if you wish to astound your bonny lass, so to speak."

"A man like you would know that life's all about timing, Jack."

"Of course, that is why I've brought my opening gambit, to share with you what I've learned from my fellowship of temptresses, teases, seducers, incubi and succubi for approval."

"Approval?" he queried, narrowing his brow.

"Aye, a man cannot be satisfied by his own approval, and it seems that that's where you come in. Now, if you would be so kind to stow it for just a moment, your good captain wishes to not be disturbed when plotting his course, strategically speaking," he cooed, letting his hand explore Will's tangled, wet tresses, feeling that his arms had slipped around his back, pressing his whole body closer, and needing to learn that world that was their bodies combined.

Like the moon being revealed after an eclipse, skin was bared without another word, and they made love to the rhythms of the cosmos - for Elizabeth's sake.


	20. Prompt: Swag

**A/N**: I couldn't find anything to bloody eat in my house, so I wrote a one-shot instead. I don't know how that correlates… don't ask. This one is dedicated to my friend Mary on Livejournal for providing me with the prompt and the pairing.

* * *

**Pairing**: Pintel, Teague, Ragetti, Jack Sparrow**  
Word Count**:706**  
Prompt**: Swag**  
**

_**Tall Tales**_

---

The fire of Shipwreck Cove paid no heed as it continued to burn within the confinement of Teague's stone fireplace. In time, each small bit of fire was too fierce to be bridled, roaring as the Brethren Court drew their swords, each penetrating their blades into a large rotating globe, depicting their influence on the map.

One by one, the bits of fire shattered as the Pirate Lords parted ways into the night, preparing for war at the command of their King. Pieces of ash flew apart in so many ways, and darkness could only guess at the number of divisions. Yet, some parts continued to burn brightly in correspondence to the stories being told around it by the pirates who remained.

"I hear that 'e was tha one who attacked tha Spanish Treasure Fleet galleons at San Juan de Ulua while impersonatin' an officer o' tha Spanish Royal Navy."

Ragetti shook his head, leaning into his uncle Pintel. "Nay, nay, I 'eard that 'e was tha one who took tha square-rigged _Fancy_ as his flagship off the northern coast o' India 'bout twenty years ago, and captured a thirty-four gun Dutch ship all by 'is lonesome! And by the way, ya've got ya countries mixed up again - it was the _British_ Royal Navy!"

Jack quickly found that he was unable to draw himself away from his crew's insatiable racket, sighing as he waited for his father to return from his rooms. He leaned back on his chair, casually crossing his legs on top of one another, placing his father's guitar in his lap as he offered a scrupulous ear to the heated conversation, smiling as the retelling had become increasingly familiar.

"Well, I 'ave it on good authority that 'e sailed under false colors in order ta save an Italian damsel, takin' the swag in 'er father's safe along with 'er virtue!" Pintel exclaimed, chuckling at the thought.

"Aye, Cap'n Teague sure 'as a colorful 'istory, so to speak," Ragetti confirmed.

'_Teague?' _Jack thought, frowning as he looking up from the guitar strings.

"Not ta mention all the pilfering, looting, depravity, depredation…"

"Don't fo'get general lawlessness!" Ragetti interjected.

Jack raised a knowing finger at the notion. "Gentlemen, seems to me that you've got your stories in a bit of a shamble, aye?"

"A shamble, sir?" Ragetti queried, looking over at Pintel in confusion.

"Aye, because by my reckoning, it was not Captain Teague who did all of those things you lads are giving him credit for."

They both laughed at his perception. "Then who did?"

Jack raised his arms, letting a smile tug at the corner of his lips. "Have you lot forgotten who I am?"

Pintel and Ragetti looked at one another again, staring for a few moments before bursting with laughter.

"Awful thing, sir. Takin' credit fer yer own father's legends. Down right shame, if ya ask me," Ragetti said, wagging a finger at his captain.

"I assure you, gents. That's far from the truth," Jack stated, placing the guitar down on the floor as he rose from his seat.

"Truth?" Pintel humored. "In all due respect, sir, but since when has Cap'n Jack e'er pride hisself on tha truth, or known fer it, fer that matter."

Jack leaned into his swagger, rounding out his hips as his grimaced, feeling his top lip twitch at the accusation.

"Sorry, Cap'n. Its jus' that all evidence seems ta point ta the contrary," Ragetti reasoned.

Jack suppressed a sudden urge to reach for his pistol. '_No bloody use reasoning with them,_' he thought, wrinkling his nose as he brushed by the pair, wishing to return to the _Pearl_ with haste, wondering why he had brought the two low life miscreants in the first place.

As Jack exited, the two pirates could no longer contain themselves from their laughter, only stopping at the sound of a low chuckle that surfaced amidst their own, accompanied by a clatter of gold coins being dropped on the table before them.

"Nice work, lads," Teague smiled, knowing that his boy was protective of his pride. "Although, I doubt he'd let you both off that easily."

They both shrugged, knowing that there were other aspects of their dear ol' Captain Jack they needed to be more worried about, besides it was bloody nice to see Teague have a sense of humor.

---


	21. Prompt: Justice

**Pairing**: Sao Feng, mention of Elizabeth**  
Word Count**: 430**  
Prompt**: Justice

_**Eclipse of Life**_

---

The air was stale with the musk of men and mint. The cozen moon, once his only guiding light, shone yellow and stood out amongst blankets of darkening clouds. How appropriate it was that that night would be one of a cosmic eclipse.

Shafts of moonlight allowed specters to dance along the walls of his ship, forgotten ghosts of an age long passed, but why did they choose to dance? Of course, he knew the answer. They were dancing to his symphony now, and soon with her release, everyone would be dancing.

The Pirate Lord stood and watched as his concubines prepared her, dressing her form in jewel encrusted fabrics of the finest quality, while letting his mind to travel beyond his ship, and the ocean, finding himself back in his home. The bathhouse was where many men had died and most were still wounded, yet still they stood, prepared to serve as the last defendants of a fading ideal.

Most of his crewmen had already lost their families, homes, and everything that they held dear. Their wounds were worth nothing in contrast. Time and again, he had seen his men fight with valor and fury as their purpose took a hold of them and turned them to gods among men, and men among boys.

The wind began to hasten, in preparation for the coming storm, and the clouds soon eclipsed the moon. Soon, the only light that was left was from his eyes, but even that light was fading out as nature assailed his spirit with the glorious rumble of cannon fire.

Could he express pain in words? Not just hurt, but a true, deep, stabbing pain? Would he find himself fleeing to a bright light in hopes of release?

Moments passed, and although he could not see his injury, he could hear his men fumbling about the decks above him, hoping that they might yet steal a few winks from Death's brother.

His trespasses upon her were intolerable and unforgivable, so it was by an act of swift justice that he would be brought before the gods to answer to his deeds.

"Forgive me, Calypso," he whispered with great regret.

Soon enough, the clouds exited as swiftly as they had come, and in their dull twilight, he could see that she was ready. To charge, and to die in the name of the Brethren, and thus, he left his final beam of hope with the very last piece of eight.

Beneath his heavy lids, he clambered up at the helm, and stood tall at the pinnacle of his battalions to sail the seas of the afterlife.

---


	22. Prompt: Virtues and Vices

**A/N**: I think this 99% original fiction…For any of you who don't know Padraic, he is one of my OC's in Esprit de Corps. He is the barkeep of _The Faithful Bride_ tavern and based on someone I actually know in real life.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Pairing**: Padraic, my OC**  
Word Count**: 1,505**  
Prompt**: Virtues and Vices

_**Tavern Codex**_

---

Hypocrisy is a classic lethal mixture that leads to a double life, wearing one face until moving onto another while aiming for its own praise and profit. An _au courant_ vice, to say the least, and all _au courant_ vices are perceived as virtues, whether they were contemptible vices or not.

He was a man that complained about binge-drinking while serving drinks at a tavern – the thought was absolutely absurd to those of sane mind, but apparently they did not understand the folly of hypocrisy as much as the Irish.

When Padraic discovered that the average sailor in Tortuga consumed an unbelievable daily quantity of more than three gallons of liquor such as beer, hard cider, rum, sherry, and mead one is apt to conclude that they were perennially sloshed on a daily basis.

The kind of drink offered by an individual tavern was a factor in its location, the availability of supplies, and the aspirations of its keeper. Drinking habits differed significantly in the American colonies, where the majority of the inhabitants were British with a much more sophisticated palette. Rum was the most popular distilled liquor in Tortuga. It was easy enough to distill, and easy enough to sell to a brigade of thirsty pirates.

In the mornings he would make his own beer, wine, cider and mead and his reputation depended on the quality of his product, but being rumored to have the best spirits in town made it hard for him to rest at night, and inevitably caused him to sleep very little. He would watch over his life's work with a sharp eye.

Nearing his tenth year of employment at _The Faithful Bride_, he found that he would still have besotted sailors stumbling into the taproom after hours. If he were like any other man in town, namely his landlord, he would have been in bed when the inebriated pounding at his tavern door began.

"I want some half an' half!" yelled the man as he stumbled forward.

"Tavern's closed - get yerself home ta yer wife," Padraic said, leaning up against the counter.

"I want some half an' half," he said with more vigor, slamming his fist down upon the counter he had just finished cleaning off.

Padraic momentarily left his post and returned with the chamber pot whose contents were dumped on the intruder.

"There's yer half an' half. Half mine an' half me dog's," Padraic said, laughing as the man ran out of his tavern door just as fast as he came in.

Consequently, his tavern inflow fluctuated daily, but he was fortunate enough to offer large groups of men a reasonable drink, food, or more than a few square feet of floor space near the fireplace for an overnight's rest. The meals and services offered in another tavern naturally varied. Sailors expected food and liquor on the road to be mediocre, the choices limited, and prices haphazard. They were characteristically delighted when they reached a tavern that exceeded their expectations.

Though, Padraic didn't own the tavern, he still felt very much responsible for its business, seeing that he produced most, if not all of its profit.

His landlord, Stewart Sherman, was a man well past his prime. Frankly, he knew more about drinking liquor than actually distilling it. Padraic always thought that Sherman was bloody madman as well, mostly because used to trap bees in boxes filled with sugar in order to find their hives for honey. Though, he did handle his business most astutely when it came to making contacts. He was always concerned about the tavern's activities, especially when Padraic didn't give the customer what they wanted.

That particular morning, Sherman walked in to a taproom already full of thirsty men, stepping over one that was still passed out from the previous evening.

"Oi, Sherman, a deadly kick for a fat fucker, aye?" Padraic said with a laugh as he looked down at the man.

"Well, that depends," he replied, pulling up a stool to the counter.

"On what?"

"On what you're serving them, of course. Now, what I really need is rent and an explanation," he said, tossing a piece of parchment on top of the counter.

Padraic carefully opened the letter, running his fingers through his hair as he read through its contents.

---

_The Faithful Bride Tavern_

10 April: 1743

Mr. Sherman,

It has come to my attention that a rumor has being circulated about myself and your establishment _The Faithful Bride_. I beg to inform you that at no time have I ever slept in the tavern. However, last week on a journey from the Northern coast, I distinctly recall my horse stopping under the large tree just beside your establishment and I had stopped in since it did appear to have been well-recognized.

Though the result of renewed vigor for my journey was not what I received upon stepping into your establishment. I was hoping to receive service, but I did not. Instead I received a most vile display by your barkeep that consisted of such crudeness I cannot bring myself to write it on paper.

Health violations of this nature should be handled swiftly.

I remain your most humble servant,

Charles Hudderfield

---

Padraic couldn't help but laugh at the letter, but Sherman was far from amused, which caused Padraic's laughter to come to a staggering halt. Perhaps, the emptying of his chamber pot in his establishment was not the best idea at the time.

"Oh, fuck, come on. Don't tell me that ain't fuckin' funny."

Sherman sighed, placing a hand on his forehead. "Will you furnish me with a whiskey and some food?" Sherman said hastily, shifting in his seat.

"We 'aven't got no bread. Haven't gone ta tha mill yet today an' by the looks o' it, I'm not goin' anywhere," he said with a smile, hoping that Sherman would still find it convenient to eat anything else he had to offer.

"No matter. You know, there have been rumors going 'round the city that the Hudderfield's will soon be pulling the pumps and the washing glasses at _The Blue Bell_ just outside of town."

"Why's that?" Padraic asked, narrowing his brow as he continued to dry his whiskey glasses.

"Hudderfield's been losing business and profit because of the Company's tariffs. Rumor also has it that we'll be going out of business as well, if you don't get your act together."

"The rumor's not exactly righ', an' if it were then I wouldn't be behind this counter righ' now. I know 'ow ta handle me customers," Padraic said coolly.

"You won't be behind that counter for much longer, if you keep driving the customers away. This isn't Ireland, you know," he said as Padraic handed him his whiskey.

Padraic rolled his eyes at Sherman's statement, watching as he swallowed the spicy liquid in one gulp.

"Damn, that's good," Sherman said, clearing his throat.

"I know, it comes from Ireland," Padraic said with a smile, pouring the man a larger glass. "Another?"

"Christ, Padraic. That's twice the fucking size of the last one."

"Save yer breath fer coolin' yer tea. Take it. It's good."

---

The next morning, Padraic went to work a new man, making molasses to replenish his rum and wine stores. In the Americas he became familiar with tapping maple trees, but surprisingly, cornstalks produced sugar of the same quality – a trick that the Native Americans taught him many years ago.

The corn stalks, green as they were, were carried to a convenient trough, then chopped and pounded so much that he could boil all the juices out from them. After pounding, he put the stalks in a large copper pot and lowered it in its own sweetness until the liquors in the glass began to break from one another. After that, he strained the stalks and boiled them again with hops.

Hudderfield would be making an appearance at his tavern soon enough now that his own establishment was no longer, but he expected no trouble.

After Sherman's unsuccessful bout with Padraic's secret stash of whiskey the previous evening, he was able to negotiate the selling of _The Faithful Bride_ tavern to a very interested buyer – himself.

Sherman was gone on the first ship heading out of port. Though, he would imagine that the old landlord would not be too happy to wake up on a pirate ship in the middle of the Caribbean Sea.

Padraic always thought that the old bloke needed a bit of fresh air.

Before opening for business that night, he nailed a new sign to his door for all to see.

---

_**Tavern Codex**__: _

_This tavern requires no physical health program, nor submits to any code of conduct. Everyone gets enough exercise jumping to conclusions, flying off the handle, running down the barkeep, knifing their comrades in the back, dodging responsibility, and pushing their luck._

_Have a bloody drink and shut the hell up._


	23. Prompt: Graveyard

**Pairing**: Ragetti, Bootstrap Bill Turner**  
Word Count**: 443**  
Prompt**: Graveyard

_**Ghost Ship**_

---

Death was at all times solemn, but not so much at sea. A man dies on shore and his body remains with his friends. Mourners go about the streets with candles in hand, but when a man was thrown overboard at sea and lost there was suddenness to the event, and a difficultly in realizing it.

A man dies on shore and you follow his body to the grave.

A stone marks the spot.

The sea was too vast and too deep to place a marker for each man lost to it.

Not much was known about Bootstrap Bill Turner. According to Jack, for most of his life, Bill had been known as a merchant seaman based out of his home port in England, or at least that's what he told his wife. A secret pirate he was, and had only spoken of his family to a choice few, perhaps in an effort to conceal any remorse he might have had.

On occasion, Ragetti could still recall his death, and how his pain came in waves, the furrows gradually narrowing as the crests grew steeper.

From feet to knees, up to his muscular arms, elbows and fingers – Ragetti watched as the cannon dragged him below, and he was no longer able to speak when Bill disappeared beneath the surface. Ragetti wondered if Bill would be willing to let the cold enter him, and questioned what it would be like for Bill to let the air in his lungs be replaced with sea water.

That image of a ghost-ship manned by one, sailing into the cold and dark, began to haunt him everyday after the deed was done, despite the fact that the image seemed to comfort him.

Ragetti often heard stories told of how the dying decided to leave symbols created from their life experiences. Ragetti took the ghost-ship as his symbol.

Most nights after Bill's death, Ragetti listened to his own breathing and counted the seconds between his breaths, bolting upright when the _Pearl _let out small groans of her own. He was dreading and expecting Bootstrap's ship of death to deliver him back to the_ Pearl_ that night, but he was sure that could not stomach the guilt that came when he would see his face again.

---


	24. Prompt: Chaos

**A/N**: In the time line of Esprit de Corps, this would have happened before chapter 20.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Pairing**: Jack/Isabella**  
Word Count**: 742**  
Prompt**: Chaos

_**Solider of Chaos**_

---

The _Hellride_ was under weigh with a stiff breeze, which reminded the crew that it was the latter part of spring, and the time to except south-easterly winds once more.

They beat up against a strong head wind under reef topsails as far as the coastlines of Tortuga before slowing her down for the evening.

The men were all in good spirits, knowing that they were well on their way to promised immortality along with their most beloved pirate safe haven as they retired for the night below decks.

As Gibbs took First Watch up on the _Hellride's_ quarterdeck, Jack and Isabella found themselves lounging upon the steps of the companion way that led to her bunk.

"Coming round Nassau, and nearing the anchorage, we saw two vessels in port," Jack began, finding that he had come into a strange habit of telling Isabella tales of his adventures just as she would find the urge to retire for the night.

"Firstly, there was a large full-rigged brig, and secondly, a smaller hermaphrodite brig – nothing entirely precarious about it, or so it seemed. The former caused the crew to suspect it to be _The Pilgrim_, but I had seen _The Pilgrim_ before and there was no mistaking her with that," Jack said, holding a bottle of rum between his thighs as he held out his arms to illustrate the tale.

"Aye, so what was she?" Isabella asked curiously.

"Well, I was right in differing from the crew, for upon nearer approach; her long, low shear, sharp bows and raking masts told quite another story. _Man of War_ said some of them or _The Baltimore Clipper _said the others, but after a moment, a broad flow of a beautiful banner depicting the coat of arms of our noble King George was visible from a distance."

"Not good!" she exclaimed, holding a hand over her mouth in shock.

"Precisely," Jack said, taking her hand in his. "I see things differently, Bella. And if it weren't for my sharp eye we would have been in the hands of His Majesty's Royal Navy within a matter of minutes. Nevertheless, in an hour, we came to anchor nearly three miles from the northern coast of the island, and took a longboat to shore. Within half an hour there was news of war in Europe."

"Everyone speaks of war in Europe," she said gravely, taking the rum bottle from Jack. "The face of war is scarlet, scaly, glazed, and framed in a clotted, filthy wig. One day, I'd like to hear a child ask their mother what war _was_, instead of preparing to find out what war really is."

"Then why is it that you've taken that name?" Jack asked, pointing a knowing finger.

"What name?"

"Oh, that silly little name you once told me. Miss Solider of Chaos..." he said, raising his brow.

She chuckled softly, taking a small swig from her bottle. "No one really calls me that. I was just trying to scare you away. I don't need anymore men in my life to make my decisions more complex. I'm complicated enough already."

"Making the simple complicated is common, and making the complicated simple is creatively uncommon. However, when you look closely at something so strange and so complicated, that's when you'll find its true beauty."

Isabella paused for a moment, bringing a hand to her chin. "Allow me to explore my ability to reduce the complicated to the simple," she said, placing the bottle beside her feet.

"Be my guest, Bella," he said, leaning back on his elbow.

She leaned back as well, meeting his gaze. "It seems to me that I intrigue you more than anything in this world. You see me as an alter ego, and you are drawn to me because I think like you, even if I am a woman. Now, with that being said, was this whole story of yours was concocted so you could learn the origins of my name, or because you just wanted to see if I was just as complicated as you are?" she asked, leaning into him. "You look at me as if wish to learn my mystery because I don't see things just as they appear to be, just like yourself."

He smiled, feeling his lips slightly part as she drew near, yet he offered no reply.

"No wonder all the young lasses like you," she whispered, smiling as she leaned forward to rise to her feet. "But, you will not have me so easily."

---


	25. Prompt: Black Pearl

**A/N 1**: If anyone is interested in _The Libertine_ fandom, check out my fic _**Conquests of a Well-Bred Prostitute**_. It's utterly smut-tastic. :)

* * *

**Pairing**: _The Black Pearl_, Jack Sparrow, and Hector Barbossa**  
Word Count**: 418**  
Prompt**: _What type of bond exactly does Jack have with Barbossa?_**  
A/N 2**: Dedicated to JackySparrowsRum.

_**A Sailor's True Mistress**_

---

Hector Barbossa likened his life to that of a sailor born and bred on the deck of a pirate brig, who was used to storms and battles, and felt bored and oppressed when cast out on the shore. He peers into the horizon of the misty sea, yearning for the storms and ships that he had so artfully mastered during his upbringing. Though, he when finally set his eyes upon _The_ _Black Pearl_, he thought it was like the wing of a seagull, gradually spanning its wings to the foam breakers in the wind, guiding it to it's freedom.

However, Jack Sparrow's eyes saw something different. The sailor's birth and breeding, in particular, had caused him to procure an unconventional love for chaos and a hatred for the normalcy of the shore. The _Pearl_'s rebellious sail mirrored the rebellious Sparrow himself, who sought to find glory within the storm. The sun's bright rays caressed the seas, creating a desire for life's storm to develop into an unnerving necessity over the course of time.

The_ Pearl_ was pure like a vision of ideal beauty, and illusive like a tender dream of serene peace. Jack and Barbossa watched her every motion; they kept their gaze riveted on her as loving men who watched the unselfish toil of a delicate woman, and she hung upon the slender thread of their existence, for she was their whole meaning and joy of the world.

They all watched her. By and by, she was beautiful and had a weakness, but they loved her no less for that. She wanted care in loading and handling and no one know how much care was enough - such were the imperfections of mere men.

The sail is the heart of the ship, and without the sail, the ship cannot function; without the sail, the ship cannot crash gloriously through the ocean's waves.

Without the love of its captains, the ship would be meaningless, and without their love for the sea their journeys for trinkets of silver and gold would be futile.

With the love of two captains, she would be free from the entrapment's of port and her journeys into the distant horizon would be never ending. The joy and laughter on her decks will not die on stiffened lips, no man would turn their backs on her, trying to look unconcerned with averted heads and half-reluctant glances.

Nay, her legend will live on as the _Grimness _of the Caribbean, as long as she had someone to love her.

---


	26. Prompt: Haircut

**Pairing**: Jack/Isabella, Ragetti**  
Word Count**: 2,196**  
Prompt**: Jack insists Isabella needs a haircut. At least four insults, two hurled bottles, and Ragetti must appear.**  
Summary**: Drabble? What's a drabble? This is me _not _paying attention to the economics of words.**  
A/N**: Dedicated to Mrs. Tina!

_**A Gypsy Rose**_

---

The gentle waves rippled with music so sweet, and came gently, washing against the pebbly shores between the passage of Santo Domingo and San Juan. They sailed against the trade winds, heading east while the bright moon played on glimmering sail and mast, and threw its beams on deck and glancing oar. On and on she went, with every sail unfurled, the _Hellride_ danced upon the surface of the sea like gypsy rose petals fluttering in a gentle breeze.

The salt spray of the sea could not compare to the thick, spicy taste of rum that numbed their lips. Though Jack had become quite accustomed to the lack of sensation, and he would quickly discover that his eager counterpart had not.

"Not much longer you'll have to wait," Isabella said, taking the last swig from her bottle, and tossing it out to sea. "Think of how bright the morning will be when we see shores on that horizon."

Aye, four more days until those shores were painted upon the sea before them, four more days until he would be granted what he longed for and desired, and three more nights where she would lie in his bed, bearing messages to a lonely heart until he bade her a mournful farewell.

Gentle knuckles caressed circles upon her cheek, feeling her body quiver, and he could not help but smile at her intimate response. The morning was already bright and sweet from where he sat. Despite the fact that it was the darkness of night that surrounded them upon the forecastle, the fire of her being brought him blazing torches in the shadows for him to see by.

She leaned back, allowing her hair to dance with the sea just as wild flowers in an autumn gust. Stands of her dark brown tresses caressed the sky, conforming to the will of the ocean while entwining with her surroundings, and he absorbed her as she turned to him, allowing a brief crack of light between their two fleeting entities.

"Do not mistake my intentions, Bella. I never regarded you as a pretty plaything for a summer hour," he said, suckling sweet remnants of his drink from his bottom lip.

"You tell many lovely stories, Jack. Though they are cruel, and force me to get ready for bed while it's light out, for I long for you to whisper them to me in the dark," she said, smiling. "Though, I am intrigued as to why your stories of me differ so much from all the others."

"The others had no loveliness in form, no special charm in their voice or winning grace. Only pairs of mournful eyes and looks of sadness when I lay me hands upon them. No, love. That's not you – never that," he said, gently tucking loose strands of her hair behind her ear. "Methinks, I've read some version of your story in your eyes, and heard a tale your lips refused to tell. Though, I will replace my voice with gentle murmurs and impious sighs, if it would be to your liking, and if you see me fit for such a task."

A rosy flush ignited the cool flesh of her cheeks, and her eyes grew so strangely pensive and so sad all the while, for she knew this bliss would not last through the week. A strong finger became present beneath her chin, playfully slithering snakelike fingers along the contours of her jaw line, and she welcomed his warmth as he lifted her face toward him, raising her to he whose tongue spoke such words of exquisite charm. Over her the plains of her saddened face, there came a happy smile reminiscent of a warm sun peeking over the crest of horizon, but she felt that she could no longer linger in such a vulnerable position.

"Would you like to know what your story sounds like?" he asked, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of her cheek for a teasing nibble.

There was a spot to where she turned her eyes, and the vessel beneath them creaked with sweet messages to her ears.

She licked her lips quickly before she spoke. "You gaze at me with eyes that ask for me to tell the tales my lips never told - the history of my early life, the love that my heart felt in the days that I have long forgotten. However, I have already raised that heavy burden off of my heart, and I do not wish to relive it again. It lies now between me and the blessed dead."

As their glimmering ship swept the sea with unfurled sails, she found the strength to lift herself from the deck and departed from his side, though stumbling down the companionway from the effects of drink. She left Jack with an aching mind and heart, causing him to grudge the calm rest beyond the skies, he realized that he would not have her back again that night, and he would not call her back, for it was not in his nature.

The silence of early morning was a great treasure to those who loved the sea, yet there was always something or someone that interrupted such a splendor of nature.

"Jack?" called a small voice, accompanied by a rather boisterous scuffle. The helplessness in her cry caused a sly smirk to travel long his lips; perhaps he was wrong about her.

Though he rose to find something utterly different than what he had originally anticipated. He faced the woman who willingly fought and rebelled against the gods and knew nothing of fear, her eyes sparkled when she thought of battle, dreaming of her battalion's roar while the sequences from the charts and maps in her mind became reality, and her weapons quickly became her devices.

However, with a mind clouded with drink, she turned into an entirely different woman, and the great general could not even navigate her way around her own vessel, let alone pass by the rigging or the shrouds without some sort of mishap along the way. It looked as if her hair and the collar of her shirt were being devoured by the ship itself, and he could not help but laugh at the sight, for it was not like her to be caught in such a compromising position.

"What's wrong, Bella?" he said, chuckling as he leaned into his swagger. "It seems that there are more similarities between you and Gibbs than I had originally thought!"

"Oh, a thought crossed your mind? Must have been a long and lonely journey," she scolded, attempting to free herself from the backstays, though she winced in pain each time she pulled away.

"Stumbling around while utterly besotted on a pirate ship is a very dangerous endeavor, and even more so at night, no telling who you might stagger into," he reproached, tilting his head. "Though I must say, you do look rather lovely from this angle; even with all the other angles I've had the pleasure of seeing. Consider yourself lucky to have staggered into me, love, for another man would most certainly take advantage."

As she continued to pull away from her knotted cage, her shirt began to tighten along her body, revealing the bountiful curves that she had chosen to hide with the oversized linen sack. A swift rip in the hem her shirt elected to expose a familiar trail that Jack's lips frequently traveled - the tender skin of her hip and abdomen were in his line of vision again.

Isabella rolled her eyes, knowing the wicked desires his mind was capable of envisioning as his eyes overlooked her. "Are you going to help me?"

"I find that notion to be very inconvenient at the moment, considering that you'd most likely flog me once I get within arms length of you. No, I quite like the view I have from this perspective. Perhaps, I'll choose to indulge myself first, and consider the thought of setting you free at an undisclosed point in time," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

He pursed his lips, deliberating with himself for a moment – oh, what wicked thoughts he had. "Perhaps, we can come to some sort of understanding, you and I?"

With a free hand, she tugged on her shirt. "Or perhaps, I'll flog you later when the crew cuts me loose."

"Will you, now?" With a few strides he closed the distance between them, and studied her closely with a bottle of rum in hand. "Pardon me, darling, but you've obviously mistaken me for someone who will cower at your feet," he said with a smile, turning away from her to head in the direction of his cabin.

"What fun would I be if I didn't try?" she asked, managing a smile.

"Considering that you've given me no incentive to set you free - none at all, evidently," he said, sweeping an arm to address her question, though he still continued on to his destination.

"Jack!" she called out to him once more. "Please?"

Her request prompted a swift detour from his destination. "A plea from a woman who likes to fight," he said, sucking his teeth. "Very well, Bella. I've had my fun, and I'll grant you clemency this time around, considering that you were due for a haircut, so it seems," he said with a flick his fingers.

As Isabella turned to tug her collar free, she felt a pair of strong arms slither around her waist – a passing touch impelled by his physical force against her resistance. He quickly abandoned his bottle of rum upon the rail just as she abandoned her effort to pull away. She was no challenge to him at that point. Instead, she allowed his fingers to glide along the very edges of her exposed collarbone – the very same fingers that traveled the length of her thighs each night, refusing to let her sleep.

As he pressed her back against his chest, she tilted her head backward to rest within the crook of his neck, feeling an indescribable ecstasy as she melted into his touch, and it allowed her to feel whole again.

However, the familiar ring of a dagger's blade startled her out of her luscious delirium.

"A rather compromising situation this is, isn't it, Bella?"

She swallowed hard. "What ever happened to me being lucky to have staggered into you?"

"Don't you remember who I am?"

"I know that you're no saint," she said, feeling the blade travel just inches from her neck, and it caused her pulse to quicken in fear.

"Do not fear me. As long as what you are afraid of is something evil, you may still hope that the good may come to your rescue. Mark it well, darling," he whispered, cutting her shirt free from the backstays, and with a swift hand, sliced threw the tangled tresses of her hair. "If your very comforter turns into the person who makes you uncomfortable, then, indeed, there is no rescue possible. Your last card has been played."

An unexpected crash startled them both to silence, prompting them to turn, and discover the bright glimmers of moonlight upon broken glass at the feet of a familiar pirate.

"Cap'n?" stated a slightly confused voice.

To their dismay, it appeared that they had a witness - Ragetti, whose face was ridden with confusion as he watched a good portion of the scene unfold before his eyes. Ragetti certainly noted that Jack still held the dagger toward a partially exposed Isabella as if they were both frozen in their act.

With great apprehension, Jack released Isabella from his grasp, and cleared his throat nervously. "Mister Ragetti! I was just assisting Miss Isabella with a hair cut. You know how women are, and it is very admirable of you to offer your assistance, as well," Jack said, raising a knowing finger as he tucked her behind him.

"Oh?" Ragetti muttered, looking rather hopeful.

"Aye. Now, I'll be needing a proper blade, seeing that this one here," he said, holding up the dagger, "is no good. Believe we've got some good razors in one of the trunks we've got stowed away in the hull. Off you go. Step lively, now!"

With a vigorous number of head nods, Ragetti left Isabella and Jack to search for a new razor below decks.

His departure prompted two great sighs of relief, and they quickly returned to their natural composure. Unfortunately, the news of their late night rendezvous was going to be at the forefront of every ones mind by the morning, for word got around far too quickly on a pirate ship. Though, from the angry look that graced Isabella's face, Jack could deduce that it would be a long evening for him - one that would surely make him long for the gossip of the morning.

"I look terrible, don't I?" she finally asked, frowning as she pulled together fistfuls of her shirt.

"Bloody awful, to say the least," he replied, gliding his fingers through her chopped tresses.

A small smirk emerged from the corner of her lips, and then he remembered why he adored that woman in the first place - with _all_ of her wonderful faults.

---


	27. Prompt: Port

**Pairing**: Jack's Conscience**  
Word Count**: 195**  
Prompt**: Port from Livejournal**  
A/N**: Jack's conscience amidst an argument about something obscure, as always. If anyone has read Place of Torment, this is in the same format. If not, then the bold and italicized text symbolizes Jack's conscience, aka Mini Jacks.

Carry on, gents.

_**Word Play**_

---

"**We all tipple, swill, guzzle, or swig, and we are all still regarded with disesteem. Rather amusing, is it not? Toping nations should be regarded as the forefront of evolution and power, mate. When pitted against hard-drinking pirates, the English go down like crops before a scythe."**

"_And furthermore, it was with great ease and grace that those whiskey-loving Americans pushed the Spaniards out of their lands." _

"**Have they really? Bloody ****Spaniards**** are quite unnerving, as it were."**

"_Aye, just pushed them out. Easy as that."_

"**Odd, always thought of the Americans as a herd of men who cannot count past three, let alone outsmart the Spaniards."**

"_Trust me, mate. There are herds more of them that cannot get past six, but they're still just as ruthless."_

"**Good point. However, I'd still wager that we'd have better conversations with the Berserkers as they lay red-faced and drunk of ****port****. Despite the many rumors about the lot of them, most seem to fight rather well and not too righteously."**

"_I'd imagine that with so many ports conquered, one would certainly be red-faced from victory." _

"**Hang on, red-faced at port or of port?"**

"_Beg pardon?"_

"**I was talking about port."**

"_As was I."_

"**Sometimes you make no bloody sense a'tall, mate."**

**---**


	28. Prompt: Mask

**A/N**: Just wanted to let everyone know that I'll probably only be able to update drabbles for the next week or so. The next chapter of _Esprit de Corps_ will be completed after my two enormous exams after Spring Break. Sorry for the long wait!

* * *

**Pairing**: Scarlett and an unidentified patron. First person POV.  
**Word Count**: 344**  
Prompt**: Mask

_**Soldier's Odor**_

---

A soldier's odor of sweat - the odor of a sweet sea breeze that like the air, burned to ocher above the seashore, and it stuck in my nostrils, continuing to intoxicate me to this day.

This was probably my earliest memory of childhood. Needless to say, the odor could not, at that time, have had any direct connection with my sexual desires, but it did gradually and tenaciously arouse my spirit within a sensuous craving for such dubious acts. It was, perhaps, the tragic nature of their calling and mine. The distant countries they would see, sailing away into the arms of death, and I was the woman who would await their arrival with open arms and warm bed linens.

You can say that I had been handed what might be called a 'full plate' of all the troubles in the world, while still too young to understand it.

However, these men were the first and only memory I had. From the beginning, they stood before me in truly masked completeness. There was not a single thing lacking upon the surface, and not even their eyes could tell me otherwise. Not much could be said about what lied within, but I had settled for the surface for as long as I could.

In later years, I sought after them for the wellsprings of my own profit, and again, not a single thing was lacking. Especially not on my part, for I refused not allow myself to be tormented by vain doubts, even as I continued to be tormented to this day. I regarded such of my own doubts as another temptation for me to indulge, and I could not afford anymore of that, now could I?

I haven't got all night. Now, for five shillings, love, I'll show exactly what that odor does to me. For ten, I'll let you wear the mask I snatched from one of those soldiers, but just for a moment. I don't want to spoil the odor.

Just a suggestion, though. I'd choose ten, if I were you.

---


	29. Prompt: Alive

**A/N**: Chapter 28 of _Esprit de Corps_ is underway! Not too long of a wait now, gents! For any of you looking for some good smut, check out _Conquests of a Well-Bred Prostitute_!

* * *

**Pairing**: Will Turner, Bootstrap Bill, and the survivor of a ship lost at sea.**  
Word Count**: 1,064**  
Prompt**: Alive (FFnet), Stories (Livejournal)

_**Lost at Sea**_

---

"_I love it_," she once said. "_When I'm out here at sea, I'm alive. I never get seasick. Never. And I've got good deck feet. I don't fumble around much_."

It was a short-lived love, if anything. Many have heard the stories of ships being attacked at sea by pirates and those alike, and those who were unfamiliar with the sea laughed at the thought of _The Flying_ _Dutchman_'s existence. Many people have claimed to have seen _The Dutchman_, but the tale was still questioned, especially when the story turned up once again from a young girl whose ship sank a day out from the island of Santo Domingo.

The ship's captain was so deep in thought that he failed to notice dark clouds looming in the distance. It was only when he heard the lookout scream out in terror that he realized they had sailed straight into a fierce storm. All they heard was a sickening crunch, indicating that the ship had hit something for too treacherous and it began to sink. As the ship plunged into the depths, and they knew that death was swiftly approaching.

The waves were, in fact, about to bury them alive.

When her male companion drowned during the long swim through icy waters, she was left to fend for herself in the rough current, feeling her insides being filled with sea water as she continued to gasp for air.

As she sank to her death, there was a moment of stillness within her. The sea was a silent killer beneath the surface. She was drowning out in a dark space, somewhere without anything to pull her back to land again.

Allowing her body to finally relax against the sea's brutal downward pull, she closed her eyes and welcomed her fate.

---

"_She's alive_!" She heard faintly; her body too exhausted to move.

After a moment, she realized that she was breathing.

'_What a most wonderful feeling_,' she thought gratefully, even if it still hurt to inhale.

"_Just about_," said another, far less enthusiastic than the first. "_Little thing seems to be gettin' less familiar with death by the minute_."

"_What'll we do with 'er then?_"

Her ears were in tune with the wooden deck beneath her, and she could feel a confident drumming of footsteps vibrating upon the surface. Another man was approaching quickly.

"_Captain! We've picked up a live one_."

There was a moment of hesitation and she assumed that he was looking her over.

"_She must get off this ship at once._ _There's an island only a day's journey away, and we shall take her there_." The voice caused the rest of the men to grow quiet.

A pair of strong arms lifted her from the deck, and as her head rested limply on the captain's chest, she was astonished to hear that he had no heartbeat of his own. That's when she knew that she was dreaming.

"_Will you take her?_" he said to another, handing her off carefully, like a porcelain doll.

Take her he did - down the companionway to an area below decks where she could rest until their day's journey would lead her back to land.

---

"_Who are you?_" she whispered, when she awoke, feeling the presence of someone by her side.

"_I'm no one of importance, Miss_."

Her eyes fluttered, trembling as she continued to feel the effects of her exhausting swim. Her mind journeyed in and out of consciousness until she heard him speak. His voice was soft at first, only allowing her to hear several patches of his story.

"…._ Used to drink a lot when I was in port_," he said, speaking openly of his weaknesses. "_And, at first, when I slept on deck, I would wake up in the middle of the night, and it was getting pretty unbearable. I start running around with a knife in my hand, trying to find lines I needed to cut loose, 'cause I kept thinking we've run aground. That's no longer the case. Captain Turner's a good, fair man. Keeps us all clear headed, while reminding us of our purpose._"

The sailor's face was weathered, and his blue eyes are bordered by crow's-feet, giving him the appearance of a man squinting into the sun reflecting off a flat plate of ocean at high noon. Ragged clothes and disheveled demeanor seemed indicative of some brute beast of burden. Yet, aside from the madness behind the rough outer appearance of being ungroomed and shoulder length hair, the gruff texture of voice, and its dogmatic delivery, and in spite of a lifetime of servitude, a kindness remained.

Finally finding the courage to speak, she told him of her companion that she lost at sea. "_I was drowning out there, and I could not see him, but I must have been visible to him in the faint haze. He called my name and I almost rejoiced when I heard his voice, but he slipped away, and he could not reach me. The waves took him under_," she said to him. "_The sea took him. I need to find him._"

The sailor nodded, looking down at his boots. "_Aye, I know, lass_."

And he did. He knew exactly of who she spoke of, because he found the boy himself. There was nothing he could have done.

"_Help me? Please? Help me find him_."

The sailor nodded his head, and she appeared to be satisfied by his answer.

However, she quickly realized that her body refused to let her continue on in her state, and as she tilted her head back, she found an unbelievable comfort in sleep.

The sailor watched her carefully, hoping that she would not awaken before their journey's end, for she would find the boy she spoke of on deck, and it would make matters far more complicated than they already were.

---

Ten days passed before disbelieving searchers discovered her — gaunt and emaciated, but nevertheless alive upon the shores of an unknown island not too far from Santo Domingo.

She survived without food or shelter or any way to build a fire. Early on, she decided that she would not brave the swim again, and her only comforts were her thoughts of home, complete with a spacious living room, beam ceilings, and a huge rock fireplace where she sat with her long lost companion that died at sea.

She told herself that her memory of _The Flying Dutchman _was a dream. A story. A long forgotten legend of the sea.

---


	30. Prompt: Shoe

**Pairing**: Pintel and Ragetti  
**Word Count**: 592  
**Prompt**: Shoe  
**A/N**: Takes place during CotBP when our two favorite miscreants cross-dress to distract the _Dauntless_.

_**A Fine Diversion**_

---

As the two pirates rummaged through a heavy leather trunk that emerged amongst the Isla de Muerta's bountiful mountains of swag, they could see why shoes could cost a fortune, and marveled at the intricacy of their design. The eighteenth century women's shoe was frankly the most luxurious accessory. Ladies of quality wore shoes of rich dress silks which might, but did not necessarily, match their gowns. Magnificent silk brocades told others that the shoes were meant for a wealthy woman, and the kind of shoes that a woman wore that defined their entire personality.

They figured that they could earn a pretty penny for each pair. How _much _was the mystery, but they surely knew it would be more than they would anticipate for something that's been on a dainty ladies foot.

Furthermore, they didn't smell, so that would add another shilling or two to the price.

Unlike clothes, shoes had a distinct advantage. Whether she was fat or thin, short or tall, beautiful or ugly, a woman adorned with a proper pair of shoes was a force to be reckoned with.

"Oi, Pint! Which one o' these matches me dress?" Ragetti asked, holding up two pairs of satin dress shoes.

"_Which one o' these matches me dress?_" Pintel mimicked, struggling with a pair of his own satin white brocades. "Stow it! I've 'ad enough of this blasted plan already! Not only are we undead, but now on top of that, we 'ave to wear frilly dresses! I don't see why Barbossa couldn't cause a cannon balldiversion like a _real_ pirate. And why don't _any_ these bloody things fit right?"

"They're called _straights_," Ragetti corrected, lifting a knowing finger. "They're not supposed to fit right; they're just supposed to go all straight-like, so they don't cause any confusion. Women don't like confusion."

Pintel wrinkled his nose and lifted a curious brow. "What's do ya mean 'straight-like'?"

"Well, they're not necessarily goin' left … an' they're not necessarily goin' right," Ragetti explained, finally choosing the proper pair for his garment along with a small lace umbrella. He thought it was quite fitting for the occasion. "Its jus' goes, well, ya know. Straight."

"Figures _you'd_ know somethin' like that," Pintel said, forcing the shoes to fit around his plump feet, attempting to wiggle his toes within the tightly confined space, but he cussed every saint that ever set foot in the Heaven's by that point.

"Are ya wearin' that dress with those shoes?" Ragetti asked, slightly confused.

Pintel suddenly grew concerned with his choice. "Why? You think it's too much?"

Ragetti shook his head and give a small pout as he opened the delicate umbrella. "No, no. Nothin'. Forget I said anythin'. You look fine."

Ragetti knew that the last thing _any _woman wanted to hear in response to their appearance was the word '_fine_.' Mostly because it always insinuated that something was amiss. Thank goodness Pintel didn't know that much.

"You know, there's no use carryin' that blasted thing if it 'as holes in it!" Pintel exclaimed after a moment.

"Well, it's not exactly rainin' and we've got to be convincin'. What part of _diversion_ did ya not understand? 'Sides, I think it looks rather dashin' on me," Ragetti retorted, resting the umbrella on his shoulder as he sauntered over to the longboat. "I'll bet me petticoats they won't see us comin'."

Pintel rolled his eyes wearily. "Bet you fifty shillings that yer mum wouldn't have seen that get up comin'."

"Hmph. Don't be stupid, you don't e'en 'ave fifty shillings!"

---


	31. Prompt: Etiquette

**Pairing**: Young Elizabeth, and Will Turner**  
Word Count**: 412**  
Prompt**: Etiquette (Livejournal)

_**Proper Ladies**_

---

"_Governor Swann, such loss of proper conduct in a lady could have dire consequences. Her peculiar manners might give her a reputation for flighty or odd behavior that could be off-putting for eligible suitors and their families. Any sort of unconventional behavior for a young lady could crush her hopes for financial security in a good marriage_," Lady Evans persuaded, with a hint of concern in her voice.

Of course, Weatherby couldn't resist or deny such an argument.

---

"Proper ladies never take cheese at dinner parties, Elizabeth. Nor do they take wine at dessert. Cheese is eaten with a fork and not with a knife."

Lady Evans sat with her mouth extended in a perpetual smile, and was so very timid, that she would not for the world have looked at a stranger. When Elizabeth was the model for the day, she became insufferable, rattling about in an infantine and thoughtless manner.

"Never play with your food or mince with your bread. No, Elizabeth. Your mouth should always be kept closed in eating, both eating and drinking should be noiseless."

Elizabeth huffed, slouching back onto her chair for a moment of relief, but found nothing of the sort. Instead, she was greeted with a swift tap on her back. "Mind your posture."

"Excuse me, Elizabeth. I must go check on the cook about dinner. I will return shortly."

After a moment of Mrs. Evan's absence, there was a soft patter on the parlor's windowsill. Familiar brown eyes greeted her through a mop of brown tangled hair. A wide handsome grin danced along his lips.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him. "Will! What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at Mr. Brown's?"

"I snuck out while he was sleeping," he answered softly. "I was watching you with your stiff lady friend, and well, you don't look like you're having too much fun."

A hint of desperation in her eyes, prompted young William to tilt his head, eying the tasteful china and silverware upon the table.

_What was she doing? _

"We're going to go the docks to play pirates. I was wondering if you wanted to come too."

He watched for a moment as she nibbled her russet-colored lips, deciding that it would be best to take his leave, and shook his head once in a final silent request for her to follow.

She smiled, placing her tea cup down with great poise. "Only if I get to be captain."

---


	32. Prompt: Flower

**Pairing**: Jack/Isabella, my OFC from _Esprit de Corps_  
**Word Count**: 854**  
Prompt**: Flower**  
Rating**: M (not kidding!)**  
A/N**: Inspired by "I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow" by the Soggy Bottom Boys (_O' Brother Where Art Thou_).

_**Just a Stranger**_

---

To many he was just a stranger with certain aggressiveness in regard to his own sex, possessing a certain pride in his own superiority, but his egotism was overshadowed by his sense of worship for all manner of women.

In the past, he had placed many of his women among his sweet lilies, thornless roses, and sprays of mignonette and heliotrope, surrounded with rose geraniums and evergreens; for no matter how old they may have grown, they were always the loveliest flowers he had ever laid eyes on. They may have been petite or large, noticeably beautiful, appealing, or merely interesting, but they were always spoken of as _lovely_.

Occasionally, there were women with fair faces and voluptuous forms, who were nothing but politic in all they said or did. Always an axe to grind, hidden somewhere in the folds of their petticoats—for they always wore costly dresses and favored jewels. They sought for the love of men who could advance their interests and increase their treasures with bountiful amounts of profit, and he had never denied them that luxury, for he never left his whores unpaid.

…_Most of the time._

In spite of all this, there was one woman he placed with his camellias, dahlias, hollyhocks, and fuchsias. Perhaps, she might have even been seen in a rosebush, with a hidden thorn now and then – or mayhap, a spicy carnation, wherein a bee might be concealed. She was a simple flower, but attractive nonetheless.

But to her, he was still just a stranger.

Perhaps there was something about him that positively chilled her to the bone. He was so intent, and so focused at the helm. His eyes burned with some secret passion, and there were times when he looked out at sea as if he wanted to cast himself toward the horizon and never come back. Whatever it might have been, he apparently shared it with no one.

_Do I scare you_? He would have asked when he was naught but an untrained prat. What a fine show he would have made of himself, letting every sensation he felt reflect through his eyes, barely concealing the expression any humble man might wear upon hearing their lover's response.

What a warrior he had become since then – tall and strong, with lean muscles. His black hair was dampened by sweat and sea spray, and hung in curly tendrils along his neck, framing his face. His skin was bronzed by much work in the sun, slightly weathered by the wind, with sculptured features – a finely arched nose, high cheekbones – that defined the face of sea gods.

He also looked extremely dangerous, and had certainly seen trouble in his days.

_So, who was she_? Was the question he asked, now a man of great experience.

Who was the woman with her hair dressed in an elaborate garland of five rosettes in his dreams?

She was often forceful in character and noticeably strong, possessing an individuality of her own.

His eyes loved to look at her, and would go out of his way to see her, but for a long time, he chose to not touch her. Not a graze or flutter of his fingers upon her sun-kissed skin, and as time elapsed, he couldn't help but regret that decision.

A long, clinging tunic of fine white material was held tightly beneath the curve of her breasts with a belt clasp formed by the heads of two snakes. Every part of her form was a mystery - the gilding of her hair, rosettes, her curves, down to the hem of her tunic, and the golden bracelets on her wrists.

"So, consider this," he finally whispered in her ear, breaking the silence between them. "First, I will kiss you until you're warm for me again. Then, I will part you from your dress, so that my hands lie on your skin, to roam everywhere they may find."

She flashed a crooked smile. "Such an eager troublemaker … Are you afraid that you'll never see my face again?"

"I've been running from trouble all my days, Bella, but I know I'll see your face again, and not by my doing – by yours."

"A fine assumption you've made."

Through heavy brown eyebrows and pupils, she watched the tips of his fingers voyage along the folded edges of her tunic, making their way along her thighs. A gasp escaped her lips as coarse, but delicate fingers he began peeling open her petals, setting aside the lush silk fabrics to reveal the woman beneath the ancient disguise.

That merited a disapproving wag of his finger. "Not an assumption, more of a promise – a certainty – a _guarantee_. Mark it well."

He gave her a long, sweet kiss, while tenderly holding her breast with one hand, and stroking her hair with the other. There was certainly no hesitation in returning the gesture, as he anticipated.

If any woman could avoid becoming a weed or thistles, it would be her.

The only other regret on his mind as he brushed aside the remaining folds was that he would wake up from his dream soon enough, tangled within the sheets of the great cabin's empty garden and still unsatisfied.

---


	33. Prompt: Candles

**Word Count**: 100**  
Prompt**: Candles**  
A/N**: Takes place after Jack's death in DMC.

_**Transpierced**_

---

Motionless ivory tongues of candles tinted thin dead faces. Lingering eyes were upon them as they passed, as if their consecrated rest had been disturbed by their heretic eyes.

The woeful candles of the dead sang their wailings for the fallen captain. The waters were strewn with tears of women in despair and qualms of men forlorn. 405 candles set aflame; their bale fires were numberless, and to each a tale of a warrior lost.

With a new flame added, there they burned – _unhonored_, until they weaken, fluttering in the evening breeze, and valued as naught but a forgotten memory.


	34. Prompt: Pirate's Code

**Pairing**: Jack, Elizabeth**  
Word Count**: 100**  
Prompt**: Pirate's Code  
**A/N**: I'm doing my best to keep things at 100. Takes place during the Brethren Court after Jack makes his decision to elect Elizabeth as King.

_**Diadem**_

---

The view was sweet - certainly sweet to the eye, but not sweet to the mind. A woman, spinning out a pirate's destiny like thread: drawing it out, measuring it with precision, and cutting it away when she saw fit.

If it was to be true, then it would seem as though the weaving and reweaving of the Code has led to a proverbial _unweaving_ to those who didn't completely comprehend what was happening, but they're not hard to sway.

Obey the law and keep her or disobey the law and lose her - all things came with a price.


	35. Prompt: Music, again

**Pairing**: Teague  
**Word Count**: 150  
**Prompt**: Music

_**Serialist**_

---

The romanticism of each individual composer merely carried him a step forward on a well established path it prompted him to. Refine _here_, pare away _there_, expand _this_ feature, and suppress _that_.

Difficult to make and dangerous when made are the sweeping generalizations about the nature of such a composer. The innovative spirit appeared in every age and school of aristocracy, but what of a brigand – a _rogue_ – a man whose reputation always preceded him?

A clandestine spokesman – a _trustee_ – of the emotion for his kind, that with skillful strokes of his fingers, produced monuments of abstract beauty, rather than messages or pleas.

Furthermore, he was a gift, who remained true to his source and directly representative of it, just as the finest tree can only draw nourishment from the soil in which it grew.

For the sake of his art, he was constantly maturing, but _always_ retaining his character.

---

**Serialist** - a modern system of tone relationships in which the 12 tones of an octave are not centered around any one tone.


	36. Prompt: Master

**Pairing**: Jack, Will (implied J/W)  
**Word Count**: 400  
**Prompt**: Master  
**Summary**: Jack and Will find themselves back in London during the swinging years of the late 1960's.  
**A/N**: Inspired greatly by a close friend's new series that takes our two immortal Captains to New Worlds.

Enjoy!

---

_**Master of Appearances**_

---

Bliss had begun on their very first evening in Swinging London in spring 1967; arriving two weeks shy of the release of _Casino Royale_, but just in time to mingle with the ever-growing mod generation, and the real reason fueling Jack's return to Her Majesty.

It was a time of enormous upsurge in creativity and optimism created by the gradual loosening of post-war asceticism, so Jack said. Suddenly, it seemed that London was full of innovators. Certainly not the London Jack remembered – not even close.

At a Friday night after-theatre party, Will noticed that Jack was being watched from afar by two gorgeous women who acted as his own personal welcoming committee.

Jack was indeed a master of appearances, but appearances were for appearance's sake, after all. The twinkle in Jack's eye shone for Will, calling to him with wordless charm. Yet, as Jack was cleverly distracted by foreign posh accents - that at first, he thought were put on - the two women slipped themselves under his arms, acquiring their perch for the evening.

Will thought they were prostitutes. Wrong. They were upper-class escapees, roaming in the swampy beds and pungent groves of London, complaining of bourgeois nonsense after every pull from their cigarettes.

Mind you, the same bourgeois that provided them with their ever-shortening miniskirts.

"It was no small thing to ask - forcing ol' whatshisface to step aside, letting a wanted man slip by the law unscathed and unnoticed. At the most, it would have certainly been a test of loyalty – along with gumption. Can't exactly say 'no' to the barrel of a gun, can you?"

Will rolled his eyes as he walked somberly behind the threesome.

"I could have taken him all by myself, but I didn't want him to lose that sword of his. Truth is; I felt sorry for him, and took him under my wing. I was convinced that by the third thrust at the door that he would fail at his little charade. The sword was only iron, after all."

Swift movement, a blade drawn, and cool iron to the skin Jack's throat was what scared the women away. "But there I was, standing against my adversary, after all."

"So you did. Though alongside said adversary presently. Your allegiances have certainly changed since then, have they not?"

Will withdrew his blade, huffing.

"It appears that we've worn out our welcome, William."

_"Finally_."

---


	37. Prompt: Bait

**Pairing**: Elizabeth, Jack  
**Word Count**: 150  
**Prompt**: Bait

_**Desiderium**_

---

Upon looking toward the sea, there appeared to be something dark and menacing traveling within the depths - a creature so unlike anything alive that Elizabeth almost doubted if she were truly awake at that moment.

There was no turning back. Her plans had been executed; the trap was set, bait skillfully positioned, and sacrifices made. More importantly, the monster wouldn't be inclined to advance again.

It was victory at a price, because ultimately, nothing came without one. Another lesson learned, practiced, and dually noted.

At last, the beast gradually approached the bait and the _Pearl_ began to move. The sun shone so bright that she could distinctly see it open its jaws and take _him_ in.

_Their_ captain. _Her_ captain. Gone.

_He must have escaped_, she thought – hoped, even.

Though she remained quite motionless, hugging herself, knowing that watching from afar would be the easiest part of it all.

---

**Desiderium** - Latin for "an ardent longing, as for something lost."


	38. Prompt: Guest

**Pairing**: Elizabeth, Jack, mention of Will  
**Word Count**: 320  
**Prompt**: Guest

_**Senescent**_

---

For years Elizabeth had let wind and weather do their worst, aging her bronzed skin with wrinkles from the sun. Most women of her age were apt to measure time by a number. Though, she was never inclined in doing so, and it made her no less beautiful.

It was a gusty and tempestuous night; she shuddered involuntarily at the dreary sound of the wind and rain beating against the outer door. The turn in weather signaled a bitter end to her dinner party, leaving her to spend the rest of the evening alone in reflection.

Her thoughts quickly turned to Will. Six days had come and gone since her lover's departure, another ten years to go. If he had remained, her faithful husband would have emerged from a side passage and into the hall to begin busying himself with letting out their guests. He would have already taken his mental inventory of those people. She'd imagined it to be an unshakable habit of his trade.

"Always punctual to dinner, but never exactly punctual about finding their way out," he would have said. If it were left up to his choosing, he would have rather spent the evening alone with his wife instead of frittering away time at a party.

Time was so precious to him.

A knock at the door; a familiar jingle accompanied the dull thud. An unexpected guest had rounded his hips to a halt outside.

Pirates were never punctual to dinner, but always found their way when necessary.

"Have you changed your mind yet, your Majesty?" He jiggled an object that sounded like a vile. "Those quiet uneventful nights would be all that's left of you, love."

She smiled at Jack's determination. It was the second time that year and probably the fiftieth in the past thirty.

But Will already told her that she was beautiful and that they would grow old together one day.

"No."

---


	39. Prompt: Touch

**Pairing**: Jack/Isabella, my OFC**  
Word Count**: 623  
**Prompt**: Touch**  
A/N**: A small snippet from one of the various nights before the _Hellride_ reached Guadalupe in _Esprit de Corps_. Just expanding on something I never really covered. Thank you, Chaos, for the quick beta read!

---

_**Fables**_

---

The night was like a winter solstice, where the planets tilt just so to their star, circling in a fixed tension between veering and longing for one another. They spun helplessly, exalted, in and out of that fleeting touch.

Even after a long day on deck, his body still felt her. She had lain in his arms long after they'd made love. In his bed that night, he felt solid. Jack had slept on ships for too long, to the point where he didn't know how to sleep with nothing moving beneath him. So he'd stayed awake while she slept, with their bodies entangled - though cooled from perspiration - still absorbed heat from the breath of faint whispers in the night.

"I had recently read that you Romans thought that bees could be slain by echoes," Jack mused, tracing Isabella's jaw-line with his smile, enough movement for her sleepy eyes to flutter. "It seems like a far-fetched, but interesting notion. The thought of a spoken word – that airy nothing which nevertheless bore and spread the impact of something – could shun these creatures right out of the air."

It felt as though a cast-iron bell hung within the arch of her ribcage, and whenever she heard his voice, it rang a long syllable of pulsing ripples within her lungs and down her bones. She inhaled deeply, stretching her weary limbs. "And if you chose to believe in such a thing, I'm certain you'd put it to the test?"

"'_To him that watches, everything is revealed.'_" A charming science of mystery and coyness was what he practiced; she'd learned it well.

With his forehead resting against hers, Jack stroked her cheek with his hand. The night was warm, and he had awakened her with fingers hot and dry to their own touch, like the skin of a stranger. Waves broke against the _Hellride_; he could feel each jolt of movement and it calmed him, but not to the same degree as the _Pearl_. "Close your eyes, listen to the ocean."

"I've listened to the ocean every day this year," she said, allowing her thoughts to wander. "At first, the noise sounded so harsh, but now…" She noted a slight rise in Jack's brow-line, a small urge against her hesitation. "It brings me peace. Same sand, same water. It doesn't change, oddly enough."

"But you have, and such a turn of events should never be considered unlucky. When it happens, when it singles one out - the great sea change that causes one's life to turn into something rich and strange - one is always lucky. Transformation. Always a gift, Bella. Mark it well." Jack's finger lightly tapped the very tip of her nose, validating his point. As he let his hand gently glide down the side of her face, to his delight, he discovered a smile upon her lips.

After a few moments of silent reflection, she responded, "This all is much like the story of the grasshopper - a simple creature, which left its home for a year to experience a different kind of life in a faraway land that its kind had never seen. It was an unexpected choice, but what's even more unexpected, was that when it came back, it had very little to say about its pilgrimage."

"A critter of few words, and they, no doubt, found him to be respectable. Unlike that bloody bee. Now, tell me what manner of respectable beastie would so easily let itself be bested by echoes?"

Isabella turned her head away from his, laughing heartily. "Jack, stop it!"

"No." He pinned her down forcefully beneath him. "What, pray tell, did our peripatetic protagonist say?"

Her lips grazed his ever so slightly. "'_I will never see this year again, not so innocent.'_"

---


	40. Prompt: Reflection

**Pairing**: Young Will Turner, Mr. Brown**  
Word Count**: 467**  
Prompt**: Reflection  
**A/N**: A different look at how young Will Turner finds his way to Mr. Brown after being picked up by Elizabeth and co. Also, I just wanted to thank everyone for their patience and support with my recent family emergency. I just felt like writing :)

--

_**Origins**_

**---**

Will licked his lips and wished he had something to drink. He was awfully thirsty, dry-as-dust thirsty, and all he could taste was salt on his skin. It was a faint dripping sound that decided for him. With nothing to choose by except his thirst, he started toward that steady _plonk-plonk-plonk_ beyond the wooden doorway of a small shop just off the town square.

The late night shadows receded ahead of him, staying the same, and the dripping never came any closer. After a long time, he placed his ear against the cool wood, and door creaked open to his touch.

Striated with clouds of black, gray, reds and oranges, the room he entered was laden with a thick blanket of steamy air. Flames roared on the hearth like a forge-fire with the bellows pumping, but gave no heat. Strange oval stones made the fireplace. Well, they looked like stones, wet-slick despite the fire, when he looked straight at them, but when he glimpsed at them with the corner of his eye, they seemed to be faces instead - the faces of men and women writhing in anguish, screaming silently - remnants of his last memories aboard a dying vessel.

The low-backed chairs and the old table in the middle of the room were perfectly ordinary; he would have said no one was there, but there was. A snoozing man in the prime of his maturity, dressed in dark clothes, slouched forward before him, with bottle of unknown origin and substance hanging loosely between his fingers.

_Plonk-plonk-plonk_.

For a moment, he averted his eyes to a single sword that hung on the wall. When he looked at it he saw only a blur where his reflection should have been. Everything else in the room was shown true, but not him.

"A sword is a difficult thing to make."

Will jumped a little, but managed to keep from yelling. All the same, he stepped backwards all the way to the door, never taking his eyes off the man who had come to from his drunken slumber.

The man leaned forward intently, with one hand on the back of his chair, watching the nervous boy. "You seem tired, lad," the man said to Will's surprise, extending his bottle. "Have a drink."

The smell of spiced wine drove home to Will just how thirsty he was. It was as if he had nothing to drink for days.

_Had he? _

"I am, a little," Will replied, finally accepting the man's offer. With the wine halfway to his mouth, he stopped. "You made that sword?"

Whispers of smoke were rising from the forge, and those eyes watched him so sharply, flickering rapidly in and out of the flames.

"Aye, but every sword is the work of many men. I'm just one."

"Two, now." He had nowhere else to go.

---


	41. Prompt: Witness

Coming out of hiatus for this one ;)

**Pairing**: Jack, Mini Jacks**  
****Word Count**: Not so drabblish 268  
**Prompt**: Witness

**_Stool Pigeon_**

"Are you certain?" Jack asked in a doubtful tone, licking his chapped lips as he suddenly realized how hungry he was. He leaned back in his chair with ease, conjuring up images of salted meats and sweet honey cake in his mind.

_"Consider it for a moment, fleshy. My first necessity was to secure irrefutable evidence of the discovery I had just made, and in the event of any personal misadventure that were to happen to me, to place said evidence away beyond the reach of ... that one... and the perpetrator."_

**"**_**That one**_**? It's like that, is it?"**

"A discovery made when there is nothing to be discovered? How unremarkable," Jack said dully, almost to himself. Or rather, him_selves_.

_"Yes, sir. In fact there is," _the voice whispered reassuringly. _"However he's not to be trusted." _

**"I'm right here, you know."**

_"No one is to be trusted, fleshy." _

"And you're sure of this discovery?" Jack asked a bit more sternly, with a slight wrinkle to his nose.

_"Witnessed him pocket it this morning. Swear on it by myself and Heaven alone."_

**"And what am I, chopped liver?"**

_"You'd probably smell a little better if you were."_

**"Shut it, you pint-sized windbag. Saw it with me own eyes too - took the **_**very last one**_**. Out on the main deck as we speak, making a show of it."**

_"Table, chair, fork, knife and plate. Thinks he's Cutler Beckett himself."_

**"A true example of blood****y scallywag manners for you."**

All three of them scowled at once.

Jack's eyes narrowed. "So the very last _one_, was it?"

**_"Our peanut." _**

"_My_ peanut."


	42. Prompt: Halloween

**Pairing**: Jack, Ghost  
**Word Count**: 544  
**Prompt**: Halloween Ghost Story challenge at the Black Pearl forum.  
**A/N: **Another interpretation of how Jack Sparrow got off that infamous deserted island the first time.

~o~

**Sea ****Turtles**

A long, pale boat was outlined by the greenish glow upon the horizon; it shimmered in the light of the moon, flashing over the waves near and far. He sat very still as he watched the boat make a slow, silent progression, steadily drawing closer to the shoreline of the godforsaken deserted island he found himself upon.

It was common for men of the sea to see shipwrecks of old sailing boats, piloted by their drowned captains, forever seeking safe harbor. Every now and then, he had seen the ghosts of warrior ships, hobbling to their lost homeland after vicious battles, and on occasion, specters of ghostly tall merchant vessels, with treasure pouring out of gapping holes in their hulls. But not all ghosts of the sea had been sighted in such a way. Rumor had it that some left the ocean to come ashore and haunt the land.

Upon the beach, the sea rolled in never-ending foam. The small boat shook and groaned as it wedged itself within the sand; he could see small, leggy creatures emerging from beneath, sliding from the backs of larger shelled forms.

A shiver went down his spine, for he knew exactly what he was looking at. Jack couldn't help but whistle under his breath; he had never felt the presence of a soul quite like this one.

In the small boat, she sat alone, just yards from him, oars held in unmoving hands. She had hair that covered her like a veil; it gleamed and flickered in the moonlight, yet it hid her smile and a gruesome scar that slivered around her neck.

Jack called out to her, curiously. There was no answer, only the gentle feeling of her presence - the wisp of a forgotten memory. Beneath the veil, her gaze was ferocious; it rang bells in his mind, but he had no idea what it was - _who_ it was. She looked so familiar to him - the spirit of freedom was within her, she was as unpredictable as the morning breeze - and yet he had no idea why.

It felt as if he belonged to her.

With a dim wash of perception, Jack turned his head, and, to his surprise, saw the woman before him, swaying back and forth. She kept her arms tightly to her sides. The air around them fell heavy with the scent of blood.

The woman stood without speaking, listening to her son's heart pounding as the moon came up behind the thunderstorms in mid-horizon.

With every blink, she drew near. That's when he recalled the pistol at his side. Jack drew it and cocked it with nervous fingers, as he came to his feet in a wide stance.

He felt absolutely ridiculous for aiming his pistol at ghost, but he stood with resolve - she didn't have to know that.

She anticipated his fear.

The spirit tilted her head back, _too_ far back for Jack's liking, and proceeded to laugh a sound with no humor in it, the kind of laugh that evoked images of barren wastelands.

_Of __course, __he __still __had __no __idea __of __her __fate!_

As quickly as she came, her form drifted backwards with a raspy retort. "Sea turtles, my child."


	43. Prompt: Family

**Pairing**: Young Teague, Jack's Mom (Samhra)  
**Word****Count**: 300  
**Prompt**: Family  
**A/N: **A small extension of my _**With **__**Eyes **__**of **__**Burnt **__**Onyx **_one-shot from "Mother's of the Caribbean."

_**Safe Harbor**_

Spring mornings were a burst of poetry.

They met by the dock each day and rowed out to the sea, tossing their lines into the water to watch the sun rise. The world before them was wrapped in a dim mist - the gray of dawn – subtle light that extended out to the farthest reaches of their world, attempting to grasp at freedom.

Fabric ruffled as he slid a protective hand over her swollen belly; the first bright point of sunlight gleamed out over the horizon and he longed to embrace it with his family one last time. She recalled the long hush of waiting - moments she wished would never end, even though they soon would.

An untamable spirit sat beside her - solitary and strong, and his eyes had a beautiful light. His crew loved his kindness, his immense capability as a captain, and his love of the sea. When they sailed with him, they would try to be awake for the moment, every twist, every turn, every sunrise, and every sunset.

Tiny sea birds wheeled above the line of surf. Far away the coast reached out and melted into the morning. He looked out to the beckoning sea as she looked up towards him.

"She's a beauty," he said, feeling her gaze.

Samhra replied with a smile, "She steals my lover from me far too often. Pardon my envy, but I'm not an admirer."

With a heavy heart, he pulled her closer, and kissed her forehead. "Soon you shall have proper company, m'lady."

"Only for a little while," she whispered. "If he's anything like his father, he'll be beyond my reach far too soon."

"If he's anything like his mother," he retorted, hooking a finger beneath her chin, "he'll be reaching for adventure forever, knowing that you won't be too far behind."


	44. Prompt: Hesitate

**Word Count:** 200  
**Pairing:** Elizabeth, James Norrington  
**Prompt:** Hesitate

_**Let Go**_

As he unlocked the iron gate, a skeptical look transformed her face, and he could already tell that his gesture wasn't going to be enough.

"What are you doing?"

James Norrington stood before her in the brig, torn in two - loving her, needing her, but also distrusting her as if she too were just another enemy brigand of the sea. How could she be for him and against him at the same time? If he asked her to choose a side, he couldn't be certain she would pick his.

Let her go, he told himself throughout the years. Let her find her own way. Let her have the world of expanding horizons she had always dreamed of. Let her find a kindred spirit with whom she could share herself, one unburdened by the weaknesses that beset him.

Fear controlled him and left him useless. Any action he chose could be a source of rejection. So he chose by not choosing, by letting time pass, by believing that conflicts, difficulties, and disorder would sort themselves out on their own in the long run.

And, indeed, they had done so and loss was the result.

Not anymore.

"Choosing a side," he replied, without hesitation.


	45. Prompt: Cat

**Pairing**: Young Jack, Young Scarlett  
**Word Count**: 389  
**Prompt**: Cat  
**A/N**: I toy with this pairing every once in a blue moon :)

~o~

The windows of _Faithful Bride _tavern shone through the darkness in patches of lustrous light, looking like foxfire in the falling rain. How well behaved she was that day. She cleaned the wine mugs, scrubbed tables and the long countertop, swept the tavern floor without being asked, and tacked oilcloth over broken windows that had been shattered by pistol fire.

Life was repetitively dreary; the men in seaside taverns all looked the same to her – with their long braided hair and ragged beards, belligerent from drink and fighting.

They habitually called her name, "Scarlett, come 'ere, darling! Scarlett, sing me a song! _Scarlett!_" A pinch here, a grab there, and a shilling made for her hospitality. Eventually, those sea-weathered faces blended into one another in the wee hours of the morning.

Replacing mugs in the bullet-marked cabinet, Scarlett silently compared the pirates she served to plagues of locust. She often thought of the trials of her profession and the teachings of turning the other cheek.

Love had no place in a wench's life. Lust was all she would ever know, which was fine by her. Love and romance simply weren't things she was at all interested in and sex became nothing more of a bodily nuisance that had to be dealt with. It was a philosophy that worked well for her, thus far.

Though she couldn't help the excitement that came with the news of _his _return – the young newcomer – a former naval officer turned pirate, armed with a reputation that had certainly preceded him. Quickly, his name became a byword among pirates for good fortune. Men flocked to him for his stories of grandeur, while women competed for his affection with ruby red lips and fine garments.

Scarlett observed him with the tawny-haired tavern wench he often frequented, laughing when the woman asked him questions about whether the stories were true, that he had committed treason. He smirked, looking like a cat that just swallowed a canary. Pressing up against her bosom, he purred a sly response in her ear, and she looked as if she loved the way he made her feel – what a fine act.

Yes, for one more night, he would grace her with his presence. Perhaps, for a moment, she may even own him, but everyone already knew - nobody truly owned Jack Sparrow.


	46. Prompt: Bluster

**Pairing**: Young Jack, _The Black Pearl  
_**Word Count**: 100  
**Prompt**: Bluster  
**A/N**: I think a drabble was long overdue for me. Enjoy!

_**Rebirth**_

A fine ship lifted from the tranquil abyss; its young captain's pulse quickening at her resurgence, an old excitement he believed to be forever lost with his _Wench_. Nervously, he took to the helm, fingering the ruins of a ship reborn; kindred spirits condemned to everlasting darkness. In his pockets rested a bartered compass that would compel them forward toward vast, changing horizons - to the grips of currents so fierce that whirlpools were swept along in its path. Sea-winds blustered gorse crowns to swell grandly at her sides; the ship shuddered, as they were both provoked back to life.


End file.
